Of Shoes and Ships and Sealing Wax
by SuperMegaFoxyAwesomeHot2001
Summary: A collection of drabbles and one-shots. No particular order or theme. So far: Daphne Greengrass character sketch, a Drinny drabble, an AU Marriage Law trope type thing, a thing with a few of my favourite Slytherins, a dark Voldemort wins AU with a Dark!Theo, a Blinny thing and a Next-Gen Scorbus thingy. Full contents on my profile (lots of rare pairs). Rated M. I own nothing.
1. Daphne Greengrass

**A/N: A character sketch of sorts. Not exactly uplifting.**

 **(I changed the rating from T to M for later drabbles and one-shots which are dark and have sexual references, strong language and triggers. Warnings have been placed -I hope appropriately- but let me know if there's anything I should add.)**

* * *

Daphne Greengrass.

Pureblood, Sacred Twenty-Eight and heiress to a fortune.

She was elegant, sophisticated, grace itself. Her hair was like spun gold, her eyes the clearest blue, and her skin was smooth porcelain. She was a princess, she was perfection but most of all, she was untouchable.

Or so she'd thought.

As it turned out, there was more to life then tea parties, balls, small talk and money. There were grades to think about, allegiances to make, power balances to consider and a war looming ahead. A war she'd never asked for, yet somehow had found herself swept up into the middle of it all the same.

Well, she wasn't completely blameless, she hadn't exactly resisted… but that didn't matter now. She couldn't possibly have foreseen what would happen, how awful it would get. No one could have done.

She'd seen horrible things, things that kept her tossing and turning at night, things that plagued her mind – her ears- with deafening shrieks and twisted screams, things that conjured malformed silhouettes that danced on the walls, here one second, gone the next. Yes, she'd seen such terrible things, torture, murder, abuse, people falling apart, breaking down, drifting away – she had seen it all. She'd watched it unfold, stood back and done nothing.

Sometimes she was sure she'd gone insane. Other times the remorse and guilt she felt would come pounding down on her, threatening to swallow her whole.

What a cruel irony, she thought, that she was suffering alone. Like so many, she was a prisoner in her own mind. Her pain was, she felt, just. She'd caused so much agony and loss, wasn't it only fair that she should suffer the same fate in solitude?

Fate.

An interesting idea. You could say that it means some omnipotent force that controls your life, but that's not exactly right.

No, Daphne had seen enough to know that there was more to fate than passive inactivity. Fate was not set, in her mind. There were too many possibilities, too many little factors that could have changed the course of events. Factors that could have changed everything.

Besides, to believe in fate to such a point where everything that happens is inevitable and has nothing to do with your actions was wrong. It took the blame away from perpetrators, from people who could have – who _should_ have- stood up and done something, anything.

But certain things were down to chance, certainly.

Daphne Greengrass was born a Pureblood, Sacred Twenty-Eight and heiress to a fortune.

She'd never asked for it but it was thrust upon her anyway. So she held her head high, because she was elegant, sophisticated, grace itself. Her hair was like spun gold, her eyes the clearest blue, and her skin was smooth porcelain. She was a princess, she was perfection but most of all, she was untouchable.

Untouchable because she was no longer naïve, because not everything is down to chance, but most of all, terribly, because she'd survived.


	2. Firewhisky Shots

**A/N:** **A Drinny drabble (Draco/Ginny). Don't like, don't read.**

* * *

 _Firewhisky Shots_

* * *

 _Ow._

That was his first thought as he stirred from his heavy alcohol-induced slumber. The world was sort of spinning, blurring in and out of focus. He tried to stand up but fell back down again immediately, that was clearly a bad idea.

Baby steps, he thought, sitting up slowly. He found his wand and cast a hangover charm, feeling his head clear even if his exhaustion and general feeling of crappiness remained.

He could smell bacon cooking in the kitchen, and toast. The smell alone was enough to drag him out of bed.

"Morning, sleeping beauty."

He scowled at his once House-mate, now flatmate, and sometimes friend.

"There's an owl for you," Blaise said, toast in his mouth.

Draco wrinkled his nose at the display of disgusting manners and Blaise rolled his eyes.

He sorted through the letters – as he expected, there was a letter from his mother, another from Gringotts and, rather unusually, a third letter penned in a hand he did not recognise along with a clipping from the _Prophet_ , a paper he'd come accustomed to ignoring whenever possible. Deciding to open that first, he set the others down.

On the parchment was written:

 _To answer your question, no I don't._

Thoroughly baffled by this, he showed it to Blaise who shrugged.

The clipping showed a photograph of himself and no - it couldn't be… but there it was, and in bold were the words 'MALFOY SCION CAUGHT KISSING HARPIES CHASER – ARE WEDDING BELLS ON THE HORIZON?'

He put his head in his hands, trying to recall last night's events.

* * *

" _Want to play a game?" she asked, a mischievous grin displaying perfectly white teeth. They were already pretty drunk; he was starting to sway a little._

 _"Like what?"_

" _Truth or dare," she suggested._

 _"We're not twelve-year-old girls," he huffed._

" _We'll play it like adults – with alcohol. Forfeit is a shot." This could be a very bad idea._

 _"Fine."_

" _Okay… truth or dare?"_

 _"Truth."_

" _Wuss," she muttered. "Did you and Pansy ever have sex?"_

 _"Ginny!" he exclaimed, scandalised._

" _Answer or drink," she said._

 _He threw back his Firewhisky, feeling the familiar warm buzz. Some things were personal. Some things you don't tell near strangers. That was just… discourteous._

 _"Your turn. Truth or dare?"_

" _Dare."_

 _"Bloody Gryffindors," he grumbled. "I dare you to…" he got a mischievous glint in his eye, "take your top off."_

 _He sounded smug, as though expecting she would refuse. They were in a public bar, after all even if they were tucked away into a secluded corner. Ginny, however, simply shrugged and wriggled out of her shirt, smirking at him. She was wearing a bright green brassiere. He tried not to stare._

" _Now we both drink," she said, pouring out some more Firewhisky._

 _"Why do I have to drink?"_

" _Because when one of us does a dare, we both drink."_

 _"That's not in the rules," he protested but downed his glass anyway._

" _Truth or dare?"_

 _"Truth."_

" _Do you think I'm pretty?" she asked. He could see that she was amused._

 _"Yes," he ground out at last, not seeing what good it would do if he ended up drunker than she was._

" _Sexy?" she asked, biting her bottom lip and leaning forward. Oh for the love of Merlin…_

 _"You can only ask one question."_

 _She leaned back once again, looking slightly disappointed. "Still, Draco Malfoy, Pureblood supremacist admits to finding a dirty Blood Traitor pretty."_

 _"I'm not a supremacist," he said._

 _She looked as though she didn't quite believe him._

" _Dare," she said before he could say anything else._

 _"Kiss me."_

 _She eyed him suspiciously, as though suspecting this was a trick._

 _"I'm not a supremacist," he repeated. "If I were, would I be willing…" he trailed off as her lips met his._

 _He'd been craving physical contact, and now that he had it, it made his heart thrum and seemed to electrify his blood – it was as though his magic was pulsing through his veins, spreading through his body and practically crackling with energy as it prickled in response to her touch._

 _Then there was a white flash and she jumped back, away from him._

 _And right then, reality came crashing down. A bloody_ Prophet _reporter had scurried off with Ginny's hexes following him. She looked as furious as he felt. Damn_ Prophet _just had to keep sticking its nose into his business!_

 _She pulled on her top and glared at him. "Did you call him here? To try and make me look stupid?"_

 _"No! Why on earth would I…?"_

" _Because you're Draco-fucking-Malfoy!"_

 _"You can't really think –"_

" _Well it's low and sneaky… right in line with your character!"_

 _"I would never do that to you, I hate the_ Prophet _–"_

" _Well I hope you're happy now," she hissed at him. "Fucking snake."_

 _"Do you really hate me that much?"_

 _He wasn't sure if she'd heard him, as she'd already Apparated._

* * *

"You kissed Ginevra Weasley?" Blaise's incredulity brought him back down to Earth.

"It seemed like a good idea yesterday!"

"I'll bet it did. Still, pretty gutsy with the publicity. I wonder what your mother will have to say about this."

"Oh _fuck_."

Blaise started laughing at him and he shot a stinging hex at Blaise's receding back. The only good thing, he supposed, was that he knew Ginny didn't hate him.


	3. Honey & Vinegar

**A/N:** **An AU in which something resembling the Marriage Law trope comes into play. Starring Pansy Parkinson and Daphne Greengrass because why the hell not?**

* * *

 _HONEY AND VINEGAR_

* * *

She was an artist. That was first and foremost how she described herself. What she did was an art but, like most worthwhile forms of art, had a poor reputation and was frequently disregarded. It wasn't honourable or expressive, rather the opposite.

People saw what she wanted them to see - nothing more, nothing less. She could be your deepest desire, electric and captivating, or she could fade into the background as a meek and shy part of the furniture.

That was her art - manipulation and deception. Though, she must admit, her art was somewhat wasted in her current situation. Wasted on this man that passed for her husband.

Most days he ignored her, sometimes talking about his frightfully boring job at the Ministry in his fightfully boring monotone (really, if he were even the slightest bit perceptive, he would see how she just shut right off the minute he opened his mouth. Perhaps if he were more perceptive, he'd notice that she was having an affair with their neighbour, a certain Blaise Zabini, who was stuck in his own forced, unhappy marriage.)

There were times when she wondered if her husband even remembered her name, let alone her birthday (which he never did, of course, though she made a point of celebrating his every year). He certainly never remembered anniversaries, not that she cared about them anyway.

No, in her own home, her art was useless - for the most part, he lived his life as though she didn't exist. Outside her loveless marriage, however, her art ran wild. She met with friends - the few she had- as much as she could and at this moment, she was in the company of her childhood best friend, Daphne Greengrass.

"I haven't seen you in a while," Pansy remarked, sipping her coffee as she regarded the blonde across from her.

"I got engaged," Daphne said out of nowhere.

"You did?" Pansy swallowed. "To whom?"

"That Longbottom boy in our year."

"Neville Longbottom?" Pansy nearly squawked.

"I'm a bargaining chip." At one point in time, Daphne would have sounded bitter about that, now she was simply resigned. With her hands in her lap and her eyes dead, she looked defeated. "It'll keep my father cooperating, seal the deal of trade company ownership between the Longbottom and Greengrass estates, allegedly anyway."

Pansy sighed, having known that this was coming for a long time. After the war, all of their lot, once high-society untouchables, had been hoarded out one by one to members of the Light side - as prizes disguised as the Ministry's feeble attempt to unite both sides of a war that still had prejudices running deep in society, even if no one was being outrightly tortured or murdered because of them.

"I'll bet he's really happy about that," she murmured, remembering the fury and righteousness that had practically radiated off one of the most famous poster boys of the Light side victory. No, he could not be happy about this arrangement at all.

" _I'm_ not happy about it," Daphne sighed, "but it could be worse."

Pansy nodded. That was the sort of world that they lived in now - one where no one complained because they believed themselves lucky, because it could be worse. So much worse.

"But how's your married life?" Daphne's asked, a smile dancing on her lips though it never once reached her eyes.

Daphne was one of the best manipulators and masters of deception that Pansy had ever known, but recently she seemed to be slipping, as though her whole sense of self was eroding away. Daphne's younger sister, Astoria, had been married off to Draco Malfoy just over a month ago in much the same manner as Daphne was going to be wed to Longbottom. Astoria seemed timid and quiet, but Pansy knew better. No, you couldn't fool someone as adept at her art as she was. Astoria would handle Malfoy just fine. Whether he could handle her... Well that was a different matter.

"Married life is..." She hesitated, trying to formulate an answer that Daphne would accept whilst still telling the truth. She liked to keep her relationship with Daphne free form deception as much as possible. "It's dull for the most part," she admitted, surprised by how true her assessment was.

"Dull?"

"He's... He's completely uninteresting in every way, talks my ear off about his work, never pays attention to me... He doesn't _know_ me, Daph. Five years of marriage and he has no idea about what I like to eat, my favourite colour, the colour of my fucking eyes, when my birthday is... Nothing. He can't tell when I'm faking it..." she trailed off, feeling the unwelcome emotion collect in her throat and threaten to bubble over the top.

Daphne put a comforting hand on her friend's shoulder. "There's always Code Nightshade," she smirked.

"Daphne! I am not going to poison him!"

"Well you know how the quality of tea is these days - it would hardly be surprising if someone fell ill from it -"

"You're a horror," Pansy said fondly.

"Funny," Daphne mused. "From what I remember, you were always the horror in school."

"Ah, but as I have come to learn, there are more ways to catch flies than with just honey and vinegar."

"Quite," Daphne smiled, a genuine smile that she hadn't seen in a while lighting up her features. "But Pansy, you are okay aren't you?"

Pansy's smile almost faltered, "Fine, thank you."

"Good," Daphne's eyes filled with relief.

Pansy hid her disappointment. To put it bluntly: she was a liar, and everyone fell for it. They accepted her answer because the alternative was... difficult.

Part of the reason she liked being Blaise's lover was that he listened, he payed attention to everything she said, every little movement that she made. He would know in an instant if she wasn't okay - but Daphne was broken, how could she expect her to notice something that Pansy had spent her whole life learning to hide?

She sobered her thoughts.

She was Pansy Parkinson, she gave literally zero fucks, she was tough, she was mean, she was sharp. She didn't need your pity, nor did she want it. She put a blank smile on her face and turned to her friend, who was babbling charmingly about her new job. Somehow, she thought, it would be okay.


	4. Our Home

**A/N:** **A semi-sentimental thing with a few of my favourite Slytherins. It's kind of an AU but it could have happened - there's nothing in canon that contradicts these events, it's just that I've made them up: which is essentially what makes it Fanfiction.**

* * *

 _OUR HOME_

* * *

Daphne had retired to her bed just before midnight. After an hour or so of tossing and turning about in a futile attempt to become comfortable and claim sleep, she got up.

Her flat - her beloved flat that was, for the most part, entirely her own- was not at its best. It was a bit of tip, as her mother would have said, no doubt with pursed lips. Over the past month, she'd given up on cleaning the place - even the mere thought of it seemed to drain her of energy- and all of her 'work things' were scattered about everywhere. She'd rather not think about work at this moment in time, though she knew that, come morning, she would have to deal with it.

It was a chilly night, the sort of cold that got inside your bones and stilled inside them, turning everything to ice. She waved her wand at the empty fireplace, the revived orange flickers shuddering warmth into the room. She settled down into her armchair - a housewarming present from her father seeing as she was now a poetic old soul living in solitude in the heart of Paris. Her father was still a little shocked by her being a 'career woman' and living out in France alone, which was not something an heiress usually did - by now, as she was often reminded, most women (aristocratic ones anyway, but as far as her father was concerned, the _other sort_ were quite irrelevant) were married and bearing children. Paris was beautiful, that she would readily admit, but it was busy and noisy, yet more convenient for her work. _You don't have to work_ , she heard her sister's voice in her ear. No, she didn't have to but she wanted to, something she was sure Astoria would understand if she were less stubborn.

She took out a cigarette. A 'filthy habit' according to Astoria, though no one else knew about it. Even in today's day and age, the Muggle habit, if discovered, would very likely be frowned upon.

She kicked aside the files and folders, as well as a pile of letters that needed attending to and rested her feet on a battered footstool. The footstool was something Marie, one of her work colleagues, had planned on throwing out. Daphne had said she'd take it - it was still functional, even if it had seen better days. Then again, she thought, we've all seen better days.

The flat needed a clean, she thought. A proper clean like the ones her mother used to do - well not personally of course, but she would order a clean to be done by house elves. It usually involved opening windows, physically cleaning things _non-magically_ , and lots of scented candles.

Daphne exhaled, a trail of silver smoke swirling up to the ceiling as she remembered the smell of her childhood home. No one lit scented candles anymore - no one ordered proper cleanings anymore.

She was in a decidedly sombre mood. This was only fuelled by the gloominess of the room, despite the fire, a fact not helped by her smoking. Perhaps it was the sheer pointlessness of everything in that moment, something so despondent inside herself at that moment, that, mixed with her nostalgia and longing for something that no longer was, made her decide to do something.

The first thing, she thought, would be to get up. Daphne thought of Astoria, who was so ruthlessly proactive about everything - a 'do-er' as her father often fondly remarked. Daphne had once been of the same mind - best do as much as possible to keep busy, to keep from thinking too much. Now she rather indulgently wallowed in what Tracey Davis so eloquently dubbed the 'shiftiness of the world'. Everyone had their way of coping, she supposed. Some ways, however, seemed more acceptable than others.

It was then that she spied a green box full of, if she recalled correctly, post cards and letters received from her time at Hogwarts. She summoned it to where she sat - magic made one awfully lazy- and thumbed her way through seven years of forgotten and boxed up memories scrawled on paper.

So many seemingly insignificant details that had seemed so important then. Written worries about exams, speculation about _Witch Weekly_ articles, Tracey's new dog (she had forgotten about old Archimedes -or Archie as he was known as), Pansy's supposed relationship with Malfoy, Pansy's heartbreak over the end of said supposed relationship, Millie's dreams of having her own jam making shop (a dream that she became less enchanted with over the years), Astoria's countless letters full of doodles and poor spelling... There was a gradual decline in letters towards her seventh year. There were letters from her mother, who had dutifully written every week in her delicate script. These letters became much shorter and muddled by her fourth year, until there had been none at all. She'd burned all the wretched 'sympathy' cards over night in a burning rage. Sympathy would not bring her back.

She was brought out of her misery by the somewhat alarming sound of the Floo. She was not expecting anyone, certainly not at this time in the morning. She jumped up, wand in hand, blood rushing through her veins, fear pricking up her spine as two bedraggled men stumbled onto her carpet. She disarmed them both, the force of her spell throwing them back against the wall.

She lit the main gas light, so that the room was properly illuminated, as well as the two intruders' faces. The light was white and harsh.

"Whoa, Daph, just us," a familiar voice said.

"Theo?" she said with disbelief, her shoulders slumping.

"And me," a drawling voice, quite unmistakable along with the distinct grey eyes and blonde hair, piped up.

"What are you doing here?" she asked, finally lowering her wand and returning theirs.

"I love your flat," Theo said, walking into the heart of the room, smiling. Daphne narrowed her eyes at him, trying to deduce if he was joking or not.

"I like the dishevelled look of the place," Draco said. "You don't bother with the cleaning then, Greengrass?"

"Had I known I was going to have guests at three o'clock in the morning, I'm sure I would have," she replied irritably.

Theo glared at his companion, who was now lounging on her sofa with his feet on her coffee table. Daphne frowned at this but said nothing.

"What are you doing here?" she asked again.

"We wanted to visit," Draco smiled, an expression she found inexpressibly repulsive and aggravating. "You're a hard woman to find."

"We need somewhere to stay -" Theo began.

"And we heard that you were taking in strays," Draco sneered, gesturing to the camp beds visible through an open doorway. No one had slept in them for a good month or so. People only did so when they were desperate, but that was her job - dealing with desperate people.

"You two are hardly strays."

"It's awful at home," Theo said. "We left early last night -"

"Caused quite a commotion," Draco chuckled.

Daphne turned to Theo who flushed.

"It was hardly a _commotion_."

"There were fireworks," Draco supplied, sort of argumentatively.

"If it were a commotion, it would have said so in the paper," Theo muttered.

"Fucking _Prophet_ ," Draco said to no one in particular.

"What happened?"

"There was an anti-Death Eater march -"

"Anti- _Slytherin_ march," Draco corrected, contrarily. Daphne had forgotten how difficult it was to be in Draco's company.

"Well it was sort of both," Theo amended thoughtfully. "A few of us interrupted it with a peaceful march. They didn't listen, naturally, so now we're here."

Both Theo and Draco looked at her expectantly.

Daphne was glad she was no longer in England, was no longer forced to see the traces and ghosts of that horrible, unspeakable year in the flesh, she need only relive them at night, in her dreams and occasionally throughout the day, by trigger of something as mundane as a cloak flapping in the wind or the sound of wind chimes - which bore an uncanny likeness to manic laughter. She liked the distance living here gave her, the stability of a job, of something new and untainted.

Now these two people - people who knew what her screams and sobs sounded like, who knew the such awful things she tried to forget, who were as much a part of her nightmares as those red eyes and green light - were here, in her sanctuary. Still, Slytherins protect their own.

"Should I be expecting the rest of the march as well?" she asked tersely.

Theo sighed in relief. "Daphne, you're a gem."

The next month was... interesting. Draco had an annoying habit of 'tidying' all of her things away so that the flat looked more like a showroom in a high-end interior's than a flat people lived in. He had also been sniffy about the camp beds, replacing them with far more comfortable (king-sized) ones.

Theo drained her alcohol until she stopped buying it. She also stopped smoking, something prompted by Draco's constant grumbling. Despite the fact that the arrangement seemed to grate on everyone's nerves (and often), generally, they seemed to get on quite well.

There were a good many visitors - Daphne was quite popular over here in France, a fact that surprised Draco immensely (Daphne was most affronted by this). The most common guest, however, was Daphne's sister Astoria.

They had an odd little routine - everybody did their own thing, coming and going as they pleased, but all assembling on a Saturday evening to dine together with Astoria, spending the time chatting.

Needless to say, both Draco and Theo became fond of Astoria (as most people do, Daphne said, rolling her eyes), but Draco more so. After a good three month of open courtship, they announced their engagement and Draco's intentions of buying his own house (I bet the bugger already has several, Theo said). Daphne was very happy for them both and over the next few years of cohabiting with Theo, she realised how at peace with life she was, something she'd never thought she would be.

She had found, finally, a home. It wasn't perfect, it wasn't easy, but it was something. And that something was worth holding onto.


	5. Saudade & Sorrow

**A/N:** **Hello again! This is a** **Dark!Theo, Voldemort wins AU. It's one of the darker things in this set of drabbles and one-shots - but they won't all be like this. I have plans for lots of fluffy, happy things too.**

 **It could be potentially triggering for some readers (references/suggestions/allusions to torture, abuse and non-consensual touching - not rape, just to clarify, but kissing and physical contact.) If you have concerns, I'd advise you not to read. Sorry if this seems like over-kill with all the warnings but better safe than sorry.**

 **Anyway, hope you're having a lovely day and enjoy!**

* * *

 _SAUDADE & SORROW_

* * *

Daphne had always thought Theodore Nott a good man, that somewhere, beneath all the cold and cruel exterior, there was a warm heart. She'd made excuses for everything he'd ever done, putting them down to fear, pressure and young foolishness.

He'd been so charming – hell, he still was- and she so ingenuous and naïve. She would have trusted him with anything – she'd given him her heart, her trust, her love, her all – her everything. Yes, she had once laid herself bare before him, so sure of him, so sure of their _love_. Now she knew better, now she didn't trust anyone. Yes, she had always thought he was a good man (she still wanted to believe it were true), but she knew better now. Now, she thought there was no such thing as a good man. Not in this world.

She saw what she'd been blind to, eventually. It's odd how love can mask the obvious, can beguile the eyes and fool you – she really had been a fool in love.

He'd promised her forever, trailed kisses down her collarbone, whispered his assurances, his mendacious sweet nothings – she'd wanted that, and him, with all her heart. Sometimes what we wish for the most is what will be our downfall. She'd learnt that, was discovering that as she sat on the stone floor, in a remote part of the Manor, head in her hands.

She was almost laughing at herself – here she was, shaking and angry, falling apart, scared of her own husband, of the man she'd thought she'd loved, who she'd believed had loved her – and maybe he had. Once. A long time ago.

It didn't bear thinking about. Her husband was no angel, no knight in shining armour – but he was keeping her alive. He was her protection in this awful world. This world that he was, in part, responsible for creating. This world where she was aristocracy, as she had been before, but at what price?

Screams echoed in her ear every night, some imagined, some real. She didn't like to think too much about what Theo did to his victims, what Theo did in the Dark Lord's name – in her name. She was not so stupid as to think he was inviting them over for tea – tea doesn't explain blood on the floor, the sounds of bones crunching beneath shiny leather shoes, the crying and the begging… Her husband was a monster.

She wondered how he was still sane, how he managed to keep his head with the feel of a body slumping in defeat beneath his hands, with the image of eyes going dead imprinted in his mind. She'd asked him once, how he did it – he'd said it was because he had her, that she was his light in the darkness.

 _You know I never touch them like this_ , he'd once told her, as he was kissing her one night whilst she wished she were anywhere but with him.

She used to yearn for his touch, now she dreaded it. She could barely keep from flinching when he rested a hand on her shoulder, an arm around her waist.

She hadn't been outside in about two years. It was voluntary imprisonment.

Outside you had more monsters, monsters that weren't so careful or polite as Theo. Those monsters she didn't know, but Theo she knew like the back of her hand. She knew what made him angry, how he liked his tea (no milk, no sugar), how to calm him down, what made him happy…

She remembered once, when he was in a fitful rage, he'd said, tears running down his face as he thrashed in her arms, his anger dissipating as quickly as it had arrived, that he wished he knew how to make her happy.

"Your happiness," she'd murmured. "That's what makes me happy."

And it did – well not quite happy, maybe – but relieved, certainly. She dreaded the nights after meetings with the Death Eaters because she knew he'd been in a horrible mood, knew he'd be harsh and rude – and maybe five years ago, when there was still hope that Potter would do his bloody job and kill that bastard, she would have been able to deal with it. Her younger self would never let Theo push her around like this, her younger self would still love Theo, would still believe there was good in him.

Her younger self had been vibrant. She could play the piano, she could dance, she knew several languages, she was witty and bright and she had _hope_.

Somewhere along the line, she'd abandoned all hope of a better life, of a _good_ life. Yes, Theo tried to be good to her, but he wasn't her true love, clearly. She still remembered the day he'd asked her to marry him, because he had to choose a bride, because they'd been childhood sweethearts.

Hell, they were both still children when they married.

When, all those years ago, young Theodore Nott had asked for her hand, she had been wonderfully (stupidly) happy.

Theodore Nott was rich – that was a fact. He was also ambitious and extremely clever. She admired that. She'd admired him – with his sharp edges and those eyes, how could anyone resist his allure? To be loved by a man like him, to be such a man's wife – that was a blessing from above.

Being A Wife (she had always imagined it capitalised) was the only worthwhile occupation, according to her mother. Her mother had married her father just a week after she came of age. He was not much older. Whilst they did not love each other, they remained in union with sweet indifference towards each other to the day they died (thankfully of natural causes- she never thought she'd be grateful for such a thing).

Daphne, however, had fancifully yearned for more. She didn't just want a Manor, she wanted a home. She didn't just want a husband, she wanted a partner, a lover. She didn't just want heirs, she wanted children. She wanted a family.

Now she laughed at the idea. In this world? There was little chance of that. She was lucky she wasn't on the streets, forced to become some wretched _courtesan_ for the Lords in the upper circle. The _Prophet_ served as a reminder for that. Living with a power-hungry acolyte of the Dark Lord in this essentially post-apocalyptic world may not be the best thing ever, but there were worse men than Theodore Nott. Yes, he had once been her 'saviour' and all she'd ever wanted but now he was her shield.

There was a particularly loud cry from somewhere in the Manor and the abrupt end of said screaming. Daphne winced, her eyes flashing memories before her eyes: Hogwarts. Final Battle. Astoria. Death Eaters. Green Light. She blinked ferociously, trying to banish it all to some dark corner in her mind.

Yes, she had always thought he was a good man, when she was younger – a flawed one, no doubt, but a good man. Now she knew he was not.

The question, she supposed, was if she could bear to be married to such a man. If she could bear the rest of her life with this man.

But then, what else was there?

* * *

 **A/N: Me again, for those who are wondering, saudade is not an English word. It is actually Portuguese and is untranslatable to a word in the English language. It roughly means a vague, constant desire for something that does not and probably cannot exist, a nostalgic longing for someone or something loved and then lost. **

**Fun fact, in Brazil they celebrate a day of saudade every January (I believe it's the 30th of January).**


	6. Trouble

**A/N:** **Double update because today is a special day - Happy Birthday Ginevra Weasley (Potter now, but still)!**

 **This is an AU (happy this time), and it is Blinny (Blaise/Ginny).**

* * *

 _TROUBLE_

* * *

"Please stop staring at her."

"I'm not staring."

"No? Then what do you call looking fixedly at someone with your eyes wide open if not staring?"

"Fuck off."

"Happily," the blonde replied. "Be careful, mate," he added, slightly more kindly.

Blaise grunted and resumed his _visual appreciation_ of a certain Quidditch chaser. She really was quite magnificent with that blazing red hair, those freckles and that laugh of hers… Why oh why did she have to be a Weasley? Her blood was as pure as his, she was bloody brilliant – it wasn't bloody _fair_.

He had yet to properly talk to her, that was true, but somehow he inexplicably saw her as his.

"Morning," Pansy said, throwing herself into the chair opposite him, her head completely obscuring his view. Blaise scowled. Pansy ignored him.

"Can you believe fucking Slughorn?" she said, shoving her bag onto the floor.

"I can believe that my weekend has taken a veritable turn for the worse."

"Charmed as ever, Blaise," she sniffed. "Just because you've got a hard-on for little Miss Blood Traitor, it doesn't mean you have be snippy to everyone else."

Blaise's glare intensified, but Pansy continued, untroubled.

"We all know that this one-sided love affair of yours is doomed to failure, so you may as well get it over with and ask her."

"I'm sorry," Blaise ground out, "but I don't know to what or who you are referring."

"Slughorn's Christmas party," she said, as though it were obvious.

"She's a member of the Slug Club, I'm sure she'll have invited a guest," he said bitterly.

"So you _do_ know who I'm talking about," Pansy said cheerfully.

"What do you want Pansy?"

"Oh nothing, Blaise," she smiled, flashing her perfect teeth. "I think I might be able to help you is all."

"How? Why?"

"Well let's see, you want Weaselette and I want very much to see Weasel's face when you have her," she licked her lips, "in fact, it would be _most_ satisfying. As to how, I think you need all the help you can get."

Blaise scowled. "I think I can handle this myself, thank you very much. Besides, I don't fancy her!"

Pansy raised one shapely eyebrow, arms crossed. Blaise sighed, almost defeated.

"Is it really that hard to believe?" he asked.

"Yes, it is. You stare at her all the time, you watch all of her Quidditch games and practices –"

"I like Qudditch," Blaise muttered defensively.

Pansy scoffed. "Nobody likes Quidditch that much."

"She's a filthy blood traitor."

"Maybe don't _say_ that to her."

"What do you suggest I do?"

"Perhaps actually have a conversation with her? Maybe?"

"Difficult – Slytherin," he pointed at himself, "Gryffindor," he pointed at her.

"You're going to have to find a way to get past that."

"How?"

"Just stop over-thinking it and talk to her, please."

"What do I say?" he asked, pulling at his collar nervously.

"How about 'hello'?"

"Uh… then what?"

"You're the womaniser here, Zabini, you tell me," Pansy smirked, standing up again. "Good luck."

Blaise stared after her desperately and then looked back to Ginny – she was still there. He got up and started approaching her, it couldn't be that hard, could it? He'd done it a hundred times with Hufflepuff girls. He liked Hufflepuff girls, they were nice and sweet and not stupid and easy to talk to. You just go over, say hello, talk about something dull, drop in a compliment or two, add a cheesy pick-up line and voila… He had a feeling this might be more difficult.

"Can I help you?" a voice asked sharply.

"I… uh…" he realised he'd been stood in front of her for a while. He hadn't even said anything and he'd already fucked it up.

"Lost, Zabini?" she asked. "Where'd your girlfriend go?" she looked around him.

"She's not my girlfriend," he said.

"Is that so?" she smiled and he found himself lost in her eyes for a moment.

"Where's your boyfriend?"

"Not my boyfriend anymore," she said.

"Is that so?" he smiled and she smiled back.

"Going to Hogsmede this weekend?" she asked, putting her books into her bag.

"I don't know."

"Haven't you got any Christmas shopping to do? Perfume to buy? Maybe some more mirrors?"

"I've been told I have a natural musk and I'm well aware of how I look," he leaned slightly towards her, his confidence restored.

She didn't back away or flinch, but instead stepped towards him, drawing herself up to her full height (which wasn't astounding but still a little intimidating).

"I'm sure you are, Zabini." She smiled, a dangerous, delicious smile that set fire to her gaze. "If you plan on going tomorrow, maybe you'll see me there."

"A bit forward of you, Weasley."

She shrugged. "Unless you're not interested."

"Maybe I am."

She grinned. "See you later, Zabini."

He stayed in the same spot watching where she'd been for the next ten minutes. He walked back to the Slytherin Common Room in a daze.

"What's got you so happy?" Malfoy demanded, as if it were any of his business.

Not even Malfoy could bring him down, though. He'd just gotten a date with Ginevra Weasley.

* * *

"Didn't think you'd show up," he said as she walked towards him. He was leaning against the gates to Hogsmede.

"Oh ye of little faith," she replied jovially.

They walked through the village, avoiding the busy spots so as to escape prying eyes. They talked about Quidditch, they talked about school, they didn't talk about the war looming ahead, or about the attacks in the paper. She was funny, he realised, vivacious and completely outrageous. Malfoy would have been shocked by some of the things that came out of her mouth. He probably would also have been shocked to see them kissing near the Shrieking Shack, snow falling around them, a branch of mistletoe above them.

It didn't take long to fall deeply and completely in love with her. She was everything he didn't dare to be, everything he admired. She was brave, she was alive, she was definitely trouble.

"You're on different sides of a war, Blaise," Pansy had said, pity written all over her face.

"Says who?"

Maybe he didn't want to take a side. Maybe his only side was by her side. _Doomed to failure_ , Pansy had said. Not necessarily, he thought. Merlin, this girl had him filled with hope, Ginny made him feel like it could work.

He watched with a heavy heart as she became detached and despondent to her classmates – they never really understood her, she told him, not after Tom Riddle. Sometimes, she would say, she felt that he was the only one who could see who she really was. The only one who wanted to see.

They hadn't told anyone. She said she didn't give a damn what anybody else thought but he wasn't so sure. Would she still claim not to care when people started to hate her simply because of him?

He sighed.

She was trouble, that was for sure. Maybe he didn't mind.


	7. Fireworks

**A/N:** **So this happened. There was a request for Scorbus (Scorpius/Albus). I tried, I hope it's acceptable.**

 **IMPORTANT NOTE: This is set in Albus Severus Potter's and Scorpius Hyperion Malfoy's first year at Hogwarts. These characters are from THE CURSED CHILD and whilst this story does not give away any major plot points at all, it might make slightly more sense if you've read it – or at least the first act, up to and including scene 4. Then NOTHING at all whatsoever could possibly be spoiled, but, I say again, there are no major plot points spoiled – you have my word.**

 **I've tried to write it so that it makes sense on its own but whether or not I was successful is another matter.**

 **Okay, have a lovely day and enjoy!**

* * *

 _FIREWORKS_

* * *

It was the last day of term before the Christmas holidays and most first year students were enjoying the party in the Slytherin Common Room. Scorpius walked into the Dorm Room, thoroughly tired out, but happy, and covered in tinsel and glitter (a couple of people may have gotten over-excited about decorating). He started to get ready for bed, even though it was still early. He planned to go back down to the Common Room and maybe sneak out to watch the fireworks.

It wasn't until he'd come out of the shared bathroom in his pyjamas, singing some Christmas song merrily, that he saw Albus curled up on his bed.

He abruptly stopped singing and neared his own bed, which was next to Albus', looking at him with concern.

"Are you alright, Albus?"

"Fine," Albus said unconvincingly.

Scorpius sighed and sat on his friend's bed.

"And that's why you're down here, all alone?"

"I was tired."

"It's not even eight p.m."

"I just wanted to get away from everyone for a while."

Scorpius nodded, though Albus couldn't see from where he was lying down.

"You going home?" Albus asked.

"I am, tomorrow. What about you?"

"My parents are meeting me at the station tomorrow, as well."

Thunder roared ahead, Albus jolted upright, his eyes going a little wider than normal. The night sky wasn't visible from their Dorm, but Scorpius knew that there would be lightning.

"You don't like storms?" Scorpius asked tentatively, not wanted to piss off his one and only friend.

"Not really," Albus' voice, though he tried to hide it, shook a little.

"I don't mind them so much – probably because my mum loves them, she thinks they're beautiful."

"Still want to be my friend?" Albus asked weakly.

Scorpius frowned. "Why wouldn't I want to be your friend?"

"I'm pathetic," Albus said bitterly. "Son of _the_ Harry Potter, saviour of all, and he's scared shitless by _thunder storms_."

"I'm still afraid of the dark," Scorpius admitted. "That's pretty pathetic."

"Is that why you always have a candle by your bed?"

Scorpius nodded.

There was another particularly loud grumble of thunder. Albus' jaw tightened.

"Let's go for a walk," Scorpius suggested suddenly.

"A walk?" Albus repeated sceptically. "I'm in my pyjamas – _you're_ in your pyjamas. We'll freeze to death."

"Come on, are you a wizard or aren't you?" Scorpius said, already bouncing up and out of the dorm.

Albus trailed after him, still doubtful.

Scorpius lead them up to the first floor, away from the dungeons.

"Are we going to the library?" Albus asked.

"No," Scorpius said, skipping along.

"Then where are we going?"

"You'll see."

Scorpius led them to a hidden nook with a large window and armchairs.

"My mum used to come here," he said as he settled.

Albus took the other chair, shuddering when a great fork of lightning struck.

"I met your cousin, Victoire, today."

"Really?" Albus pulled a face, though the mention of one of his favourite cousins cheered him slightly.

"Well I didn't meet her exactly – I saw her with the boy with the blue hair –"

"Teddy?"

"Yeah, that's the one. It was awkward."

"Oh?"

"I was majorly third-wheeling."

Albus laughed. "Teddy's round all the time. Dad's his godfather."

"I heard about that… and his parents."

Albus' face steeled. "Dad doesn't really talk about them, or you know, anyone from the war."

"My dad doesn't either – but mum does, sometimes. She tells funny stories about Aunt Daphne and dad, too – apparently, in my dad's fourth year, he got turned into a ferret."

"What?" Albus spluttered, completely and utterly distracted from the weather outside by this revelation.

"There was this crazy teacher who turned him into a ferret for trying to curse your dad."

"That sounds… painful."

"My mum thinks it's funny," Scorpius smiled. "My dad's over it now, but I think it was a sore point for ages."

"Hang on, my dad got me a pet ferret for Hogwarts…"

Scorpius laughed. "Maybe that's why."

"My dad and Uncle Ron stole a car and flew to Hogwarts once."

"They what?"

"They couldn't get onto the platform, so they flew in a flying car. It was my grandad's."

"Of course they did," Scorpius rolled his eyes. "Why didn't they owl somebody?"

"Because they're not very bright – or that's what Aunt Hermione says."

Scorpius shook his head. "Your dad's pretty cool."

"Allegedly," Albus grouched. "You think he'd be exceptionally popular but I checked some stuff and at least most of the Wizarding World thought he was mental."

"When he said Voldemort was back," Scorpius nodded.

Albus looked at him oddly.

"I did a bit of reading before I came here," Scorpius muttered.

"A bit," Albus said. "Oh, I got you something."

Albus took a poorly wrapped package out of his dressing gown and handed it to Scorpius. "It's not much – but Merry Christmas! Excuse the wrapping."

Scorpius' face lit up like – well, like a child on Christmas. He unwrapped it – a pack of Pepper Imps fell out onto his lap.

"You said that they were your favourite when we met," Albus said, getting flustered.

"Thank you!" Scorpius nearly sang, he looked astonished that Albus had even remembered. He _accio_ -ed a suspiciously book-shaped parcel – beautifully wrapped. He handed it to Albus.

"Thanks?" Albus picked up the now unwrapped book. It looked extremely dull.

"It's not really a book," Scorpius said excitedly. "It only looks like one. There's a secret compartment inside. I thought you could hide sweets inside because, you know, your mum doesn't let you have them."

"Thank you," Albus beamed, feeling the happiest he had all year.

"That's alright. Are you looking forward to the holidays?" Scorpius asked, still smiling.

"I suppose – it'll be nice to see everyone – even if it's so noisy."

Scorpius quirked an eyebrow.

"We visit my honorary Aunt Luna and Uncle Rolf – they've got two sons: Lorcas and Lysander. Then we have the big dinner at Grandma and Grandpa Weasley's – you know, the Burrow? _Everyone_ comes over. All my aunts and uncles: there's Uncle Bill, Aunt Fleur, Victoire, Dominque and Louis who's just been born. There's Rose and Hugo – that's Rose's younger brother – and their parents. There's Uncle Percy and Auntie Audrey and their daughters Lucy and Molly and then there's Uncle George and Auntie Angelina with Fred and Roxanne, and there's Teddy of course. And my godfather Neville – you know Professor Longbottom? - and his wife, Hannah. Then there's my Great Aunts – Tessie and Muriel. Uncle Ron says they've got bones made of steel. Sometimes my Aunt Gabrielle comes over – she's Victoire's aunt." Albus was counting his relatives off on his fingers, frowning to see if he'd forgotten any.

"That sounds wonderful," Scorpius said, wistfully.

"It is," Albus agreed, "but it can be suffocating – and you always get this feeling that there's something hanging over everyone – I used to think it was because of Uncle Fred but… I think it's a bit more than that."

"I know what you mean," Scorpius said seriously. "We have Christmas dinner with my grandparents – my dad's mum and dad – and they've fought in two wars and sometimes that shows."

"What about your mum's parents?"

Scorpius smiled. "They're good fun. We usually eat at their house with my Auntie Daphne."

"What's she like?"

"Eccentric," Scorpius grinned. "She's the one who bought me almost all the books I own. Her and dad were in the same year. Oh look, the fireworks have started."

Albus looked out of the window – stunning electric displays of magical fireworks illuminated the sky. The frequent whizzing drowned out the thunder.

He looked at his friend – his only friend, his best friend – and smiled. "Merry Christmas."

It was raining, with occasional bursts of colour and lightning – but Albus wasn't afraid, in fact, for perhaps the first time since coming here, he felt at home.


	8. Charms & Chances

**A/N: At the behest of my sister, here is Cho/Cedric. (Chedric? Cedro?) This pairing, for some reason, didn't flow very naturally for me so if it seems a little strained, then that is why.**

 **There is time jumping and stuff but hey-ho.**

 **I hope you are having a lovely day and enjoy!**

* * *

 _CHARMS & CHANCES_

* * *

 ** _First Year_**

"Need a hand?"

Cho looked up at the warm, attractive smile of the boy above her. He didn't look much older than she was.

"Oh um…" she'd barely gotten her head together before he was pulling her up off the floor. "Thank you."

"That's alright. Takes a while to get used to the hustle and bustle of the corridors," he laughed, the sound was charming. "I'm Cedric Diggory."

She shook his outstretched hand. "Cho Chang."

"Nice to meet you, Cho. I've got Charms now so I best be off. What's your next lesson?"

"History of Magic."

"Just down there, to your left," he said.

"Thank you. Again."

She trailed off down the corridor, slightly bemused. Honestly, of all the things to happen. Trust her to meet someone like that, sprawled on the ground. She felt the delayed redness of embarrassment creep into her cheeks, Oh Merlin, she really had met him in a heap on the floor. How undignified – but he was no nice about it.

She recognised Marietta standing outside a classroom. Relieved, she hurried towards her.

 ** _Fourth Year_**

"I think I'm pretty much guaranteed an ' _O_ ' in Arithmancy, it's just Transfiguration, really. I mean…"

Marietta and Maria were talking about exams – as they had been doing for the past month. They were all together in the library, doing some revision seeing as the relentless rain prohibited outdoor activities. Cho was dawdling along the book shelves, wistfully looking outside, wishing she was playing Quidditch instead. She was trying to find _Olde and Forgotten Bewitchments and Charmes_ by E. Limus but she was too stubborn to ask for help – besides, she could find it by herself just fine. She was also pretending to listen to the conversation behind her (mainly whispered).

Honestly, it was as though they had nothing better to do than discuss results and revision _all the time_. Exams were ages away – and they'd all pass with flying colours, it wasn't as though they were lazy.

"Oh, hello."

Cho nearly jumped right out of her skin.

"Sorry, didn't mean to startle you."

The boy in front of her – who had appeared seemingly out of nowhere – smiled lopsidedly. It was sweet. She knew who he was of course, it was hard not to when they'd played against each other many a time before.

"You didn't," she said automatically. "Startle me, that is."

"Good. It's Cho, right?"

She nodded. "Cedric."

"So you remember me," he said.

She smiled a little more easily. "Of course I remember you."

"Were you looking for something?" he asked, clearing his throat.

" _Olde and Forgotten Bewitchments and Charmes_."

Cedric picked it up off the shelf above his head and handed it to her.

"Thank you."

"Anytime. Are you excited about the match next week?"

"Yes – a little nervous though."

"You shouldn't be nervous; you can beat the snakes easy."

Cho shook her head.

"No, really, I think you've got more than a fighting chance."

"Not as much as you have," she said. "Hufflepuff could win it this year."

Cedric smirked, his features lit up. "I'm glad you think so, though at this point, it's anybody's win."

"Good luck to you, Cedric."

"And to you, Miss Chang! See you around, Cho."

"Bye, Cedric."

She stood rooted to the spot for a moment. Next time, she thought, I won't be so awkward.

 ** _Fifth Year_**

"He's staring at you," Marietta said, biting into her toast.

Cho glanced at the Hufflepuff table, Cedric was indeed staring – she smiled at him and he gave her a grin.

"You like him," Marietta said accusingly.

"As does every girl in Hogwarts, I imagine. Especially after his coming second in the First Task."

"Not _every_ girl – and besides, there's only one he seems to have eyes for."

Cho flushed. "I'm sure that's not true."

Maybe a small part of her wanted to believe that it _was_ true but just because she'd fallen completely and utterly in love with him was no reason to start confusing herself with idle fantasies. Just because they talked sometimes, and sometimes he would brush her hand with his or tuck a lock of hair behind her ear was no reason to suspect that her feelings were reciprocated. He was a Triwizard Champion for Morgana's sake! He could have his pick of any girl he liked. Why would he want a tiresome Ravenclaw like her?

They finished their breakfast and left the Great Hall together. On their way to the Ravenclaw Tower, they were waylaid.

"Cho!" she turned around to see Cedric turning towards her, the cut on his cheek now completely healed. Gosh, that moment had been terrifying - she'd really thought that he might die.

"Hello Cedric."

"If you're not busy this evening, Cho, would you accompany me to the Astronomy Tower?"

"Um, sure," she blinked, trying to ascertain as to whether she'd heard him correctly or not.

"Brilliant," he beamed. "I'll come by the Ravenclaw Tower at seven."

oOo

Cedric cast ' _lumos_ '.

"It can be a little dark up here," he said, his smile caught the light. With that smile, Cho thought, he could get away with anything. She would never tire of seeing that smile. Over a dozen secret excursions had passed between them and she still got excited. There was something about him that was just breath-taking, something that just drew you to him.

Cho nodded and they ascended the stairs to the Astronomy Tower.

Cho leaned on the stone, gazing up at the night sky, spattered with twinkling stars. Cedric extinguished his wand and lent next to her.

"I've always liked it up here," Cho said. "It's so peaceful and quiet."

"I could use some peace and quiet," Cedric chuckled.

"I'll bet. I could barely watch you fighting that dragon."

"You were worried?"

"For you, not about you," she said. "I knew you'd do it – somehow."

Cedric's expression was unreadable. "And now there's a second task to riddle out."

"You will be careful, won't you?"

His hand rested on hers. "I promise I'll try."

"That's not the same thing."

"No, it's not," Cedric said, a grin tugging on his lips. "Pedant," he said fondly.

"Ravenclaw," Cho corrected.

"Cho," he said, "would you do me the honour of being my partner to the Yule Ball?"

"I'd be delighted."

She reached up and brushed her lips against his, the feeling utterly foreign but not unpleasant. He pulled her closer, kissed her harder and if Marietta noticed her giddiness and swollen lips the next morning, she said nothing of it.


	9. Swish & Flick

**A/N:** **Hello, good morning, good evening, good afternoon.**

 **So this is set post-Hogwarts. It's kind of AU (and some of the characters are mildly OOC) but the war happened, it's not 19 years later yet, it's somewhere in between.**

 **This is also a Romione. No hate please. I know some people (most people I know) HATE this ship with the fire of a thousand suns - if that's the case, then I'd advise you not to read.**

 **I say Lavender Brown lives. Fight me.**

* * *

 _Swish & Flick_

* * *

Ron looked over at his fiancée. She sat in a rocking chair, knitting and plotting quietly. His worried frown deepened.

They'd had an unfortunate run-in with Lavender Brown and her beau – he'd known that it would be bad. He'd expected warm tea, pyjamas, angry muttering and _Hogwarts: A History_ kind of bad, he had not been prepared for silent, calm and knitting bad.

This was infinitely worse.

"Hermione?" he asked hesitantly.

She jabbed her needles together furiously. She appeared not to notice the way that the yarn kept changing colour.

"Love?"

He sat down next to her, taking the knitting needles out of her hand. She looked up at him sharply.

"Are you alright?"

"I'm perfectly fine and dandy, thank you for asking. Just top of the world," she said, getting up and turning on the kettle. "Tea?"

"Forget about the tea. Is this about Lavender?"

"What makes you think that?" she was rummaging through cupboards, neglecting to use her wand entirely.

"Because you're upset – and we saw her today."

"Forgive me, but my emotional health doesn't orientate around that harpy."

Ron sighed.

"So you're not at all bothered?"

"I assure you," Hermione said, hair sparking with magic, "she most certainly does not bother me in the slightest."

oOo

"A dinner party?" Harry repeated. "But you don't cook!"

"Not yet," Hermione replied stubbornly, "but really, how hard can it be?"

"Quite hard –"

"If that blonde strumpet is supposedly talented, then I'm sure I'm more than capable of rustling up a pie or something."

"Hermione," Harry ran a hand through his hair. "If this is about Lavender –"

"I've said it before and I'll say it again – this has nothing to do with her."

She slammed her mug onto the cheap table in the café with a huff. They'd forgotten to give her sugar, as usual. Honestly, how hard is it? And why did this have to be the only café that didn't have sugar on the tables?

"Then tell me why you've suddenly decided to invite everyone we know to a dinner party of all things? You _hate_ dinner parties –"

"I do not hate dinner parties I just… think that there are other more worthwhile ways to spend one's time."

"Then why?"

"Maybe I want to have a dinner party. Is that alright with you? Do I need your permission to host a dinner party?"

"Well, no –"

"Do you think I'm not as able as that wretched woman? Is that it?"

"Merlin, Hermione, no."

"Then I'll ask you to at least try to be supportive."

"And Ron? What does he think about all of this?"

Hermione sniffed. "I'm ignoring his input until he starts being encouraging."

 _Well at least that's normal_ , Harry thought. If Hermione had her heart set on something, then she was damn well going to do it.

oOo

The dinner party had begun – and not spectacularly.

The guests made an interesting assemblage. The company was tense for some reason, maybe it was due to the presence of Pansy Parkinson and Daphne Greengrass, courtesy of Percy ("Pansy's alright really, and brilliant at what she does") and Hannah, Neville's girlfriend ("Daph's a darling! We've known each other since we were babies practically!").

Hermione liked Hannah just fine, she was lovely and also she came with Neville. She supposed Hannah's judgement couldn't be _that_ awful but Percy's… she looked doubtfully over at Parkinson who was looking distastefully at the wine in her glass.

This would be a long evening.

"So, Pansy," George began, "you work with Percy."

"I do," she said, barely bothering to grace him with a glance in his direction.

"How frightfully boring of you."

"I'm so sorry to disappoint," she said dryly.

"Excuse me," Percy interrupted, "there is nothing boring about the regulation and control of international –"

"And it's just white noise," George said, swallowing the rest of the wine in one gulp.

Percy scowled.

"Hermione, dear, how's the pie cooking?" Ron looked anxiously from Percy to George and then back to Pansy.

"I'll have a look," she murmured, glad to get away from the awkward company.

"That's an interesting bracelet," Daphne said to Luna, who was sat beside her.

"Thank you," she said. "It's naturally anti-wrackspurt."

Daphne just nodded, confusedly.

One couldn't help noticing the way Luna had stacked her knife and fork together in some sort of tower. Nobody said anything about it.

"I heard about the recent Harpy game – congratulations," Daphne smiled.

"Thanks," Ginny replied stiffly, looking pointedly at Hannah who, cheerfully chatting away to Harry who sat beside her, didn't notice.

" _Shit_!"

There was crash in the kitchen. Ron stood up.

"I'll go and… see if I can…" he rushed out of the room.

"Are we quite sure Granger can cook?" Pansy asked.

" _Pansy_ ," Daphne hissed.

"Because that commotion suggests not," she continued. "I know she's Brightest Witch of our age and all –"

"Why are you even here?" Ginny interjected, crossly.

"Your _charming_ brother invited me," she said, levelling a glare in Ginny's direction. "That necklace is positively _tawdry_ on you," she added, tutting.

Ginny's face flushed a dangerous red and she stood up, thrusting her wand out. "You little bitch -"

"Um, I think we need to evacuate…" Neville pointed at the smoke coming out of the kitchen door at alarming speed.

"Quidditch, anyone?" Harry asked helplessly.

"I'm up for that," George said, summoning his broom as they shuffled quickly outside.

oOo

"'Mione?"

Ron coughed, wafting at the smoke, seeing Hermione sat on the floor.

"What was I thinking?" she said, looking up at him. "I don't fucking cook."

Ron chuckled. "Not yet, anyway."

"Not yet," she agreed, regarding him with chocolate eyes. "Oh bugger, they're all still out there," she raked her hands through her hair agitatedly, looking on the edge of irritated tears.

"Forget them," he said, joining her on the floor. "You know I don't care if you can cook or not. I don't care if Lavender Brown is the best chef in all of bloody Britain, she'll never be anything compared to you and I will always love you."

She smiled up at him, eyes glistening under thick lashes. He leant towards her, one hand supporting his weight, the other behind her head, bringing their lips together.

"You crazy witch," he murmured fondly. " _My_ witch."

"Always," she said, pulling him closer.


	10. Something In Your Eyes

**A/N:** **This isn't exactly a romance. Just warning you now, but it is Drastoria (Draco/Astoria).**

 **As for warnings, minor reference to alcoholism. Oh and I should probably say that this is NOT how I envision the marriage of drastoria or anything, I like to think they married for love.**

* * *

 _Something In Your Eyes_

* * *

"Marry _him_?" Astoria repeated, pointing at the pale man standing in the corner of her father's study.

All sense of propriety had abandoned her the moment she'd heard those words.

Her father sighed, running a hand over his face blearily. It had been a long night.

"Yes, darling. Mr Malfoy has asked for your hand in marriage. So now that we're all on the same page, as it were –"

"Page? We're not even in the same library! Since when have I been engaged?"

"Astoria," her father said desperately, eyeing the man across from him warily. "This proposal has been agreed since your birth –"

" _My_ birth? Daph's eldest –"

"– And in a similar engagement to Mr Nott, as well you know."

"Dad, I'm barely seventeen."

"Nobody's asking you to marry him tonight –"

"Oh, well that's okay then," Astoria muttered.

"Darling, please. It'll be a long engagement if I understand correctly?"

Mr Malfoy gave a solemn nod, no part of him betrayed any emotion.

"Dad, please _listen_ to me. I'm not ready for marriage or children or estates – _Daphne_ 's heiress, you said – promised – that that was it, that there'd be no more –"

"I know, darling, but this arrangement has been in place for a long time, and has been brought to my attention by Mr Malfoy, senior, that is and I simply cannot ignore it – _we_ cannot ignore it."

Astoria looked from her father to the silent and still man standing sentry on the other side of the room. He was so still he didn't look real, none of this felt real.

She finally nodded, accepting her fate and she felt the fight go out of her. Her father exhaled in relief and she excused herself. So she had to marry Malfoy – it could be worse. So much worse.

She'd been prepared to marry a nice, acceptable Pure-blood to please her father, have a few children, perhaps, and be done with it. She had not been prepared to be stripped of what little freedom she had, what little choice… now it was Malfoy or destitution and ruin for her family, for that was surely what was bound to happen if she refused Malfoy's suit.

oOo

"I feel so sorry for your poor sister," Pansy lamented to Daphne as they sat at their table at the wedding reception. "Having to live with Draco for the rest of her life – he's my best friend and I love him but he is an asshole."

"At least it's not Goyle," Daphne muttered, sipping her wine delicately.

"That is true," Pansy agreed. "Anyway, where is that useless husband of yours?"

"Probably attempting to drown himself in the champagne," Daphne replied, helping herself to a plate of salad.

"Already? The party's only just started."

"He hates weddings, this one particularly."

"How interestingly conventional of him – I had rather hoped he was a romantic at heart."

Daphne snorted. "If romance comes in the form of distant indifference, then he is a maestro."

Pansy tutted, though she was smirking. "Give him time, he may surprise you yet."

"Maybe," she murmured. "Astoria did look miserable, didn't she?"

"She did but once she discovers the alcohol cabinet in the Manor, she'll be as happy as Larry."

"The question is how you would know about that cabinet, Pansy," Daphne said, smiling.

"Oh please," Pansy inspected her perfectly manicured nails. " _Everyone_ in our year must know by now, at least the Slytherins anyway."

"The Pure-bloods you mean."

"Of course, Daphne. That's how it was, how it _is_."

"I wish it wasn't."

"Of course you do – if it wasn't, you wouldn't be married to Theo and Tori wouldn't be forced to marry Draco and maybe my mother wouldn't be harping on about snaring a husband all the time. I don't think she realises the reason I'm not yet married is because no one wants a harpy for a mother-in-law."

"Pansy!"

"Well it's true. I hope your sister finds happiness," Pansy raised her glass.

"Me too," Daphne said, joining the toast.

"I know a really good lawyer if she ever needs to divorce –"

"Pansy!"

oOo

Astoria looked up at Malfoy Manor – the place that was to be her home. It looked vaguely sinister and she wondered just how much blood had been spilled inside, how many screams had echoed off the finely polished marble walls, how many Death Eaters had sat at the expensive hand-carved wooden tables, how many lives had been bargained away in the drawing rooms?

 _Did it matter?_ she wondered. Or, more importantly, _should_ it matter? Could she live the rest of her life here, knowing that people were sentenced to death in the very place she now stood?

She looked nervously at the man – her husband – who walked slightly ahead of her to the front door. She was used to big fancy houses, she lived in one for Morgana's sake, but Malfoy Manor was quite something else.

"Welcome to your new home."

His voice startled her – it was deep and soothing and smooth, a contrast to the sharp, purposeful edges of his figure and face. She'd hardly heard him speak throughout their engagement, which despite assurances otherwise, was incredibly short. They were married within a week and she knew no more about him now than she did only days ago when she'd resigned herself to this fate.

She stepped over the threshold, feeling the buzz of the wards as they adjusted around her. The Manor was shrouded in deathly silence.

He began to cross the entry hall to a large staircase which had a doubtlessly priceless carpet running up the full length of it. The small yet exquisite gas lamps that adorned the walls at regular intervals lit themselves as he walked up the stairs. She followed him, unsure, slightly afraid and with the swirling of homesickness in her stomach.

The Manor was too quiet – it didn't have the rustle of curtains as cats ran past, the sounds of laughter and friendly chatter in the corridors or the light airiness she associated with home. It was gloomy, furnished with expensive articles that displayed impeccably fashionable taste and elegance but not designed for comfort or _life_. Walking up the stairs was like walking through a museum in black and white.

"I'll show you around properly tomorrow, but this is your room."

He gestured to a door identical to all the others – it swung open to reveal another dimly lit room. She looked at him, trying to deduce what she was supposed to do now.

"That's my room," he waved an arm to a door quite a way away from her own. "If you'll accompany me downstairs, my lady?"

He held his arm out to her, looking slightly nervous yet still amused somehow. What on Earth was he amused about? She smiled the smallest of smiles and took his arm. _This_ , at least, she could do.

Once downstairs, in what she assumed was one of the many drawing rooms, he indicated that she should sit as he approached the infamous alcohol cabinet and poured two small glasses of whiskey. She was no connoisseur when it came to whiskey, but it tasted both good and patently exorbitant.

He sat in an armchair by the crackling fireplace opposite her, the flames dancing on his inordinately fair complexion making him look warm and for the first time, assuredly human. His slight twitch at the mouth brought light to his eyes and she thought maybe, just maybe, she could live with this man.

"My plan was to talk to you over some of the good stuff to try and ease away the awkwardness that comes with arranged marriages."

She looked at him oddly, but said nothing, resting her eyes on the floor again.

"I'm not my father," he began before trailing off, he was pacing the room now. "I don't want you to be afraid of me."

"Should I be afraid of you?" she asked, finally meeting his grey eyes with her own deep blue ones. There was something comforting there, swirling in the depth of his irises that seemed oddly inviting, oddly reassuring. His eyes were brilliant - not like the dreariness of the Manor at all, they were different - _he_ was different.

He regarded her carefully. "Perhaps. I am a Death Eater, after all."

"You were found not guilty."

"Someone's been doing their research," he said, snorting derisively as he poured himself another glass. "Tell me, what else have you learnt about me?"

"You're the youngest Death Eater there ever was."

"That's true, go on."

"Your father is cruel. He forced my father to sign an agreement promising me to you from my birth."

"And that's cruel?"

"My father promised me that after Daphne's marriage… there would be no more of that, forcing your children to do things they don't want to do."

"And you believed him? Didn't you know who my father was?"

"I knew perfectly well," she snapped. "Which was all the more reason for my protest."

"Don't you think I protested too? I didn't _want_ to marry an ungrateful child –"

"An ungrateful child am I?"

"I'm making my best efforts to be gracious to you –"

"Are you?"

"See! There, no wife of mine would dare interrupt me."

"I thought you didn't want me to be afraid of you."

"I didn't expect that unafraid would be interpreted as _rude_."

"And the cauldron meets the kettle," she huffed. "You're pompous, condescending and arrogant."

"And you're an impudent, disagreeable chit!"

"Gracious, you said?"

He sighed, setting down his glass and sitting back down.

"We'll start again, how's that?"

"Fine by me," she crossed her arms stubbornly.

"I'm Draco, delighted to make your acquaintance."

"Astoria," she said curtly, blatantly not returning his conversational nicety.

He glared at her and she smiled sweetly at him.

"Draco, be a gentleman and pour me a glass of brandy."

"Are you sure you're old enough to drink?"

"I'm old enough to be your wife," she retorted sharply.

"You were probably expecting me to get down on one knee and be romantic about the whole affair, weren't you?" he drawled, as he poured her a drink from a glass decanter.

"Not really," she replied, tossing her hair over her shoulder before accepting the drink he held out for her. "Though I must admit it was a bit of an anti-climax when all I had to do was sign a damn contract and say 'I do'."

"I am so sorry to be such a disappointment."

"I doubt you can help it."

He scowled and stood again, taking her glass and setting it on the antique table. She frowned slightly.

"Perhaps I could accompany you to your room?"

"If you would be so kind," she narrowed her eyes at him, standing up with grace and elegance well beyond her years.

"You have a lovely name, Astoria."

"Thank you," she looked at him cautiously.

They reached the landing that had her room and his.

"I thought you'd want your own room," he said, the mocking tone that she'd heard in most of his speech was lost.

"That was uncharacteristically thoughtful of you."

She could feel the glower he sent her even if she couldn't really see it in the tenebrosity of the corridor.

"What can I say, I'm a thoughtful man."

He started walking away.

"Draco?"

"Yes, sweetheart?"

And there it was, the mocking voice was back.

"Goodnight."

"Goodnight, Astoria."

Even in the twilight, the sparkle in his eyes caught her. There was definitely something there and she might have married a stranger, but she was determined he would not remain so.

* * *

 **A/N:** **For those who care, the title comes from 'Strangers In The Night'. I know, but I like Frank Sinatra so...**

 **I imagine, that as in the song, love for Astoria and Draco was _just a glance away, a warm embracing dance away_ \- okay I will stop now. Hope you're having a lovely day. **


	11. Winds of Change

**A/N: I'm back. Sooo, this thingy-majig. I actually wrote it two weeks ago and I was really proud of it but then the unthinkable happened and my memory stick broke and I lost everything because I'm an idiot who didn't back stuff up. Lesson learned. **

**So this is pretty much done from memory and fuelled by my frustration.**

 **ANYWAY: I wrote a thing (chapter 3) about an AU where Neville and Daphne get married. I thought about it and then I wrote this. It's nevne (or is it deville?) and it's less AU than the other one.**

 **Warnings: references to traumatic brain injury and death. That's pretty much it.**

* * *

 _Winds of Change_

* * *

"I'm going to St. Mungo's," Daphne said, pulling on a scarf.

"Now?" Theo appeared in his pyjamas, looking bleary.

"Yes, now," she slipped into her coat, frowning when her blonde hair snagged and tangled on a button.

"Daph, it's almost midnight –"

"You should go to sleep now," she buttoned up her coat. "If people see us together this late at night –"

"Ugh, keep your morals away from me," he groaned. "I don't care what people think."

"Not yet, you don't," she countered, pulling on gloves and boots.

"Who's going to say anything? My father's rotting away in Azkaban –"

"And mine is rotting in a hospital bed. If you'll excuse me –"

"Are you ashamed of this – of us?"

"Theo, this is not the time –"

"It never is, is it?"

"Goodnight, Theo," she said, vanishing in the green flames.

oOo

She threw herself down into a metal chair beside her father's bed. It was cold and very uncomfortable, but she couldn't find it in herself to do anything about it. Technically, she shouldn't be here anyway as it was _not_ visiting hours but if she was quiet and bribed the right people, it went unnoticed.

Usually she'd just sit next to him and watch – waiting for him to wake up, to say something, to smile… He talked a lot of gibberish, kept calling Astoria 'Althea' – the name of their deceased mother and didn't seem to do much outside of sleeping but somehow she just had to be there, because you never knew when it was the last time, because you never knew when it was goodbye for real.

" _Traumatic brain injury,"_ the nurse had said.

 _"But you can cure him, can't you?"_

" _We'll keep trying."_

It was upsetting to see him suffer, distressing to hear him cry and yet she just felt she had to be there.

Often, she and Astoria would sit together in silence, watching over him. He wasn't usually ever alone – there would always be at least one of his daughters by his bedside.

He wasn't a very talkative patient.

So she would sit, unable to stay attentive but unable to sleep properly (at the hospital or otherwise). He mumbled in his sleep sometimes, though she'd long since given up trying to find any meaning in what he was saying.

Sitting beside him was like intense meditation – well, Daphne thought, perhaps not meditation exactly but it certainly forced you to confront your thoughts. She thought about her mother when she was here – her greying skin, her dull blue eyes and the slight curve of her mouth, as though she were about to smile. It was a smile that remained long after she herself did not. It had been four years but it still felt sharp and fresh and sudden.

She felt a cold shiver up her spine and got up to close the window, stretching out her legs. The window looked out onto the Muggle street below. It was autumn now, leaves turning golden colours and falling thick and fast from the branches on the breeze.

It had always been Astoria's favourite season.

Daphne preferred spring.

She watched the empty street for a while, marvelling at how calm and still it all looked. How the little people in their little houses with their little families lay sleeping in their warm, cosy beds, oblivious to the pain and suffering that was right before them, right next to them and still a world away.

The window had a complicated charm on it, it could have looked out onto anything – a snowy mountain scene, a tropical beach with salty air, a quaint village but instead it looked onto this street. _Why_?

oOo

It was 4am and she was sure she looked awful – wild bird's nest hair, shoes and tights long since discarded, a throbbing ache in her neck from where she'd fallen restlessly asleep and probably huge bags under her eyes – she was also sure she didn't care.

Rubbing at her eyes, she wondered if Theo would be awake yet. Probably not, she thought. Yawning, she considered sending him an owl but as she stretched, decided against it. He won't worry, she thought forlornly. Or maybe he would…

"You should go home."

Daphne looked up. "Hello Neville."

"You've been here for hours," he said.

"So have you," she countered.

"You really don't look well."

"I don't feel it either."

He sat down in the chair across from her, removing her tights from it as he did so. In another world, she would have been embarrassed. _In another world_.

"You never told me why your father ended up here."

She pursed her lips. "It's a bloody long story."

"That's alright," he said, summoning a bottle of _Firewhisky_ and two glasses. "I love a good story."

"Then you'll be disappointed," she sighed. "Alright, it started…"

oOo

"Neville Longbottom?" Tracey spluttered.

"Yes, Neville Longbottom," Daphne rolled her eyes, turning the page of _Witch Weekly_ with disinterest.

"And you're inviting him to this party? Are you sure that's wise?"

"Why wouldn't it be wise?" Daphne raised an eyebrow at her friend.

"Because he's Neville Longbottom! Light Side hero, Gryffindor –"

"Yes, and an annoying one at that."

"How can you possibly be friends? What in Morgana's name can you possibly have in common -?"

"His parents are on the same ward as my father," Daphne interrupted sharply. "That's how we met."

"Oh," Tracey said softly.

oOo

"It started in fifth year," Daphne began, taking her glass from Neville. "That's when my mum died and since then – he's never been the same. He just sort of kept eroding away, the lines between his old life and the life he had with us – with my mum, with a family, were being blurred.

"He wasn't a Death Eater, just incredibly stupid. I don't know the specifics, just that he knew more than he should have, supplied information to the Dark Side and everything. He gave that up when he met my mum and we never heard anything about it ever again.

"But a few weeks ago, he went out with a few books from the library and left the safe in his study wide open. Next thing we know, he's been found by some witch on her way to Diagon Alley.

"The Healers say it's traumatic brain injury but I know better – I know _him_ better. I think that somehow, _pede claudo_ , all the truly horrific things he facilitated and encouraged have come back to haunt him. I think he's paying the price.

"I don't what they did to him or what he did, all I know is that my father is gone and all that's left is this _shell_. He's hardly there anymore – he doesn't recognise me, he doesn't even remember I exist… and he's suffering, I know he is. He doesn't deserve this; I don't care what he's done. No one deserves this."

Daphne, swiped at her eyes quickly, hoping Neville wouldn't notice. If he did, he didn't make any acknowledgement, for which she was grateful. She handed back her glass.

"Anyway, it's just a waiting game now but it's just… hard?" she finished hopelessly.

Neville took the bottle and filled her glass until it was almost overflowing.

oOo

"Neville Longbottom?" Theo's hand stalled where it hovered over a rack of freshly toasted bread.

"He's coming over for tea, so put on your best manners."

Silence.

And then:

"Are you fucking him?"

Daphne wrinkled her nose at his blunt vulgarity as she poured the coffee.

"No."

"Then what do you do with him?"

"Talk – though that must come as a surprise to you seeing as you never engage me in conversation."

"I didn't know that you liked to be so engaged," he retorted.

"It would be nice to talk to you once in a while, seeing as you leech off of all my resources –"

"Not all," Theo objected, clearing his knife of butter on the side of his plate.

"Just be pleasant, please? For me?"

"Oh Daphne," Theo said with his mouth full of half-chewed food. "Aren't I always?"

oOo

They were sat on the floor, against the wall. They'd been there almost all night, talking, sharing memories, thinking out loud, smiling, laughing. It was good to talk to someone who understood, who could empathise without pity, comfort without hollow and nugatory assurances.

Neville was different to anyone she'd ever met. He was unpredictable, he did things because it was right, because he wanted to – not for some well calculated, self-benefiting reason that she was used to trying to suss out with the people in her circles.

He was like fire – and he burned brightly. He didn't swallow up his pain or lie or mock so he wouldn't look foolish. Instead he was vulnerable and when he was, she had to remind herself that _this boy was a soldier_. This boy had fought in a war, had felt unbearable pain and looked death into the eyes.

He was interesting in a way that was unfamiliar but perhaps not unwelcome.

"I'm sorry about your dad."

"He wasn't like your parents. He wasn't brave."

"He was scared."

"So was I," she leaned against the wall, turning her head to face him. "So were we all."

He said nothing for a while, letting her lean against him, supporting her.

"You need to sleep."

"Why do you care if I sleep or not?" she asked petulantly, though she could feel herself sagging under exhaustion.

"Well someone has to."

"And that's you?"

"Go to sleep, Greengrass," he smirked at last.

* * *

 **A/N:** **Me again. I don't know if this is romance or not. This title comes from another song - _Make you feel my love_ by Bob Dylan. Covers that are famous include Billy Joel and Adele.**

 _ **The storms are raging on the rolling sea**_

 _ **And on the highway of regrets**_

 _ **The** winds of change **are blowing wild and free**_

 _ **You ain't seen nothing like me yet.**_


	12. Maybe

**A/N:** **You'll probably hate this.**

 **It's Pansy/Ginny (Gansy? Panny? I don't know...) It's obviously AU and that's pretty much it. Don't like, don't read is my advice.**

* * *

 _Maybe_

* * *

Ginny had seen Pansy the moment she walked in. It was hard not to, not when the girl in question was so… striking.

She wasn't exactly pretty or warm – she was all sharp edges and spikes, pale skin, jet black hair and heels as high as a pint of beer. She practically buzzed with prickly static electricity – crackling the stagnant air with it.

Ginny hadn't been to this particular pub before, but she'd been to many others like it. They were all the same: noisy and packed to bursting with drunkards, rowdy students, bitter old men and creeps that felt you up whilst you were dancing. She'd smile a little, swing her hips, drink a lot and work hard to forget.

Forget that she was Ginevra Weasley, warrior and survivor.

Forget that she was ex-girlfriend of the Saviour of All.

Forget that her ex-boyfriend had fought in a war.

Forget that _she'd_ fought in a war – and lost terribly.

Forget what she'd suffered and endured.

Just forget it all, drown it out, shove it away and breathe again. It had been so long since she'd felt free and weightless and just happy to be alive and young. You could try and replicate the feeling with alcohol, drugs and sex but none of it came close. Not that she hadn't tried, of course. She'd tried everything she could think of.

It had been almost five years since the Battle of Hogwarts.

Since Fred.

Since Hell on Earth.

Shouldn't the pain be less by now? Wasn't this eddy of despondency and grief supposed to edge away, bit by bit? That's what they'd said – time would heal it, space would make it all feel better and one day – _one day_ – she'd be able to live again, be happy again.

One day she wouldn't feel this twinge in her gut at the sight of black hair and dark eyes, things that seemed to go together with the charming, dangerous smile she remembered. That careful calligraphy inscribing soothing words and his face as he drew himself from the diary, sucking out her strength, blood on her hands, a snake in her mind and spiders crawling up her spine.

Ginger hair and a crooked smile and a lifeless body.

Screams and tears and shaking.

So much pain, so much loss.

She downed her glass and the shaking subsided. A little.

 _Forget it all_.

oOo

Pansy Parkinson was very tired.

She was tired of having to defend herself and her own existence – not that she made much of an effort to anymore, or indeed at all. She'd resolved to do what she did best: get on with things. She was working with animals – it was low-station with pretty poor pay but it was enough to get her going on her own, to not have to depend on her parents anymore, to move out (eventually) and finally have something that was all down to her, something that she'd _earned_ without help from anybody else.

She didn't need anybody else, least of all some filthy rich husband. She could manage on her own.

That didn't mean it was easy. Oh Morgana, no. It had never been easy. There was still the graffiti and death threats left on her door, the insults and glares from strangers, the shopkeepers that sometimes refused to serve the likes of her and just the general isolation from a society that would never accept her.

Not that she cared, obviously.

What else could she expect, really? She was Sacred Twenty-Eight, a Pure-blood through and through – not there was anything she could do about that, as much as she sometimes wanted to and a Slytherin, and there was arguably nothing that she could do about that either. Were people really that blind to their own hypocrisy? No one would openly insult a Muggle-born for their blood or treat them like dirt for a thing they couldn't change (especially not with Golden Girl Hermione Granger championing rights for the historically oppressed), but it was perfectly fine when the subject in question was someone like her.

Ah, but there was more to it than that. She was the one who wanted to give up the Boy Who Lived to a madman in order to save her one and only real refuge as well as the people she'd come to call family. That was unforgivable.

Never mind that the people who were really unpleasant were usually those who had never had to eat at the same table as Lord Voldemort, never seen their best friend, maybe something more break down and drift away, never felt the very real fear that had gripped her heart like a vice, had never actually picked a side but had had the choice to do so. They were the ones who claimed to be righteous but had never stood up for the Light side but _could have done_ without serious fear of direct retribution, the ones who said and did nothing when the Carrows were torturing children – surely they were equally as responsible for that as she was? They were guilty of the same crimes! Yet she was blamed for it on the basis of one moment of desperation, one moment of blatant terror…

It was pointless to waste time fuming about it all.

It was what it was. She kept to herself mostly, sometimes she met up with Draco, Theo, Blaise and the girls. Sometimes she went out drinking alone, like tonight. She was feeling reckless and maybe she'd drunk a little too much. She felt light and happy – or at least happ _ier_.

Maybe that was why when she saw Ginny Weasley sat alone, she made her way over to her. Maybe that was why she decided to start a conversation.

Pansy Parkinson was tired of trying to forget and let live, she wanted to burn and burn brightly, at least just for tonight.

oOo

"Drinking alone, Weasley?"

Ginny glanced up to see Pansy Parkinson, who stood over her with a strange expression on her face. Ginny considered the other girl – here was one of the meanest, snobbiest and unbearable bitches she'd ever met and yet, for reasons she could never quite explain, she said nothing when Pansy sat down next to her. Maybe she should have told her to fuck off, maybe she should have got up and left – but she was tired of holding grudges, she didn't have the energy to hate anyone for what they'd done in those awful years – mostly, anyway. Maybe she saw something in Pansy's eyes that served too much like a mirror to her own soul. Whatever the reason, she found herself talking.

"Could say the same to you, Parkinson. Where's your ferrety boyfriend?"

"Draco?" Pansy snorted. "I have no idea. Probably drinking. Alone. Much like you."

"And you," Ginny retorted. "You're drinking alone."

"Look who's been paying attention." The words could have been sharp, but they weren't. They fell short somehow.

"Where's your green-eyed wonder boy?"

"We broke up," Ginny replied curtly; "But you probably already knew that."

Pansy shrugged. "I'm not surprised."

"Why not?"

"Because you both changed. How could you not? And you're sat here, drinking – what _is_ that? It smells like shit –"

"Have you been thinking about this a lot Parkinson?"

"Perhaps," she smirked.

"What happened with your boyfriend? Did he get smothered by the weight of his own gold?"

"Draco wasn't exactly what I was looking for."

"What are you looking for?"

Pansy leaned in close, studying Ginny's face. Ginny found herself slightly breathless, though she couldn't say why. Their faces were inches apart, she could see the slight green flecks in otherwise dull brown eyes – the colour of dried and dead tree bark. The glint in her eyes, just at the edges, of someone who'd seen terrible things. She knew that glint, saw it every day in her reflection.

"Let me buy you a drink," Pansy said suddenly. "Two gin and tonics please."

oOo

Her kisses were soft and like a feather on Ginny's skin, delicate and light and gentle. It was such a contrast to the harsh image Pansy seemed to radiate.

It had been a long time since she'd felt like this – living for the present like she had nothing to lose was normal, this was different. It was so inherently different. The cool, comforting press of Pansy's silver locket as she pulled them closer together, the slight teasing laugh as limbs and straps and cloth became tangled, and the sighs of pleasure as lips brushed together.

It was fire like she'd never known, the sweet, fulfilling kind rather than destructive. It didn't feel wrong, it felt right.

She'd gone back to Pansy's flat using the Floo, something about a good, aged bottle of cognac – _better than the horseshite you've been drinking_ , Pansy had claimed. They'd had one glass and then they'd started talking again, on Pansy's trodden-down sofa ('it's vintage', she'd sniffed).

They talked about Pansy's job ( _you have a job?_ – Ginny had marvelled), about Harry Potter, about how it wasn't Pansy's fault and no, Ginny didn't blame her, and yes, maybe she was starting to like Pansy, for all that she was mean and harsh and sharp… Pansy just seemed to understand it – she knew how it was, she said it like it was, she was horrifyingly truthful about seemingly everything and she didn't pull sickening 'sympathetic' (read: pitying) faces at her, or tell her that it was going to be okay, or that she was sorry.

No, Ginny got the distinct impression that Pansy wasn't an apologetic person – but she still made mistakes, like everyone else. The more they talked, the more Ginny felt her suspicion and an irritating voice (which sounded a lot like Ron's) that told her this was bad idea begin to recede. Maybe this wasn't a _great_ idea – not in Ron's eyes, anyway – but Pansy was actually alright, Pansy was funny and made her laugh, Pansy was completely and utterly outrageous.

So they talked into the night, cognac deserted and forgotten, prejudice and bigotry left on the doorstep.

About how Pansy had kissed Daphne once in their dorm room and Daphne had gone red and they'd sworn never to mention it. About how Ginny had never kissed a girl before – and did she want to do something about that?

So began something secret.

oOo

Afterwards, Ginny would think in private that perhaps she hadn't been as drunk as she'd claimed. Pansy would think that she'd definitely been as drunk as she'd claimed but why would that be a problem? If Ginny could like her whilst she was drunk, then Ginny could like her sober too.

And Ginny did seem to like her, they woke up next to each other after all, the sun filtering in through the curtains, the fresh early morning breeze that blew in through a crack in the window jolting Ginny awake. Pansy was (mostly) awake but refused to get up. Didn't Ginny know it was eight o'clock in the bloody morning _and_ a Saturday?

Pansy didn't work on Saturdays, Ginny's season was over until next year so she stayed and made breakfast. She wasn't in a hurry, anyway.

oOo

One year later.

12 months of stolen kisses and late night dancing.

53 weeks of hands intertwined and bodies together.

365 days of letters on parchment paper and secret smiles in the street.

Ginny had a bounce in her step, a flutter in her chest and a blush in her cheeks.

"You seem cheerful," Hermione had remarked.

"I am," she'd said, realising the truth of it. "I'm happy."

And she _was_. Mostly. If it weren't for the fact that she was falling, and falling hard for a girl who was mean and snobby and unbearable. It had been hard, in a way because she wanted to tell people, she really did but who would ever accept their relationship? She didn't think her family would empathise, and nor did she expect them to. They wouldn't give Pansy a chance – not after what she'd done, not after the war.

Yet it was precisely because of the war that she'd even talked to Pansy again – it was because of the war that she was sat with Pansy now, snuggled on Pansy's sofa, two wine glasses on the coffee table. It was early evening and the dusk settled around them like sympathetic armour, covering them up.

"They'll all think I'm getting back at Harry by being with you," Ginny sighed. They were having the same conversation they'd had many a time before.

"Show's what they know."

"Mhm."

Pansy supressed a frown. "What is it?"

"What do you mean?"

"Something's bothering you. Come on, out with it."

Pansy swished her wand and cast _lumos_ , sending light to the overhead lamp. Ginny's face looked almost neutral but the glow from above betrayed the pained look that lingered there, which Pansy caught immediately.

"I just… I don't think I'm ready for everyone to know. It's not that I don't… because I _do_ , you know I do, but I just don't think I'm ready to tell people."

Ginny's eyes were pleading and Pansy softened.

"Then we won't," Pansy said decisively.

Ginny whispered _Nox_ as Pansy leaned in, the light dimming away until all she could see were those dull brown eyes, those eyes that now seemed to glow, even in the absence of light.

"I love you, you know," Pansy murmured.

"I love you too."

* * *

 **A/N:** **Why was this so long? I honestly have no idea. Pansy and Ginny were requested (as were most of these pairings), so if you have a particular pairing you'd like to read, let me know and I'll try and write it but it might very well be shit. You have been warned.**


	13. A Very Unlikely Pair

**A/N:** **This has to be the weirdest request I've ever received – Ernie Macmillan and Tom Riddle. Yikes. Here we go…**

 **Yes, this is very AU - I've taken great liberties and also, it's not finished so you can imagine the ending for yourself! (My way of saying that I just couldn't work on this any longer.)**

* * *

 _A Very Unlikely Pair_

* * *

Ernie Macmillan blinked, certain that the other boy must be mistaken.

"You're having me on, aren't you?"

"What are you on about?" the other boy said crossly, scowling at him.

"No way is it 1943!"

"I don't know what you're playing at, whoever you are but I sure as hell am not falling for it."

The boy walked away, turning around only to give Ernie a cautious look before hurrying down the corridor.

 _1943_.

It couldn't be. It was 1996, he was _certain_ of it, had wrote it down just this afternoon on his parchment for Potions.

He carried on through the winding corridor that he knew so well that looked different somehow. Was it the fact that everyone looked different? He couldn't recognise anyone. Was there some sort of event he hadn't been made aware of? Was this some sort of celebration where you take on someone else's identity for the day? Oh wait, wasn't that Malfoy?

Finally, someone he recognised! He'd been wondering around for a good half hour, trying to work out what it was that he was missing. Malfoy would set him straight, wouldn't he? He was a right git and probably evil too but he wasn't a liar. Besides, Ernie was panicking a little now and felt quite desperate.

Seeing no other option, Ernie sped after him.

"Malfoy!" he called out and a pale blonde head turned in the sea of students as Ernie rushed towards him. "What the hell is going on?"

"Do I know you?" Malfoy drawled.

That voice - it sounded odd and upon studying Malfoy's face, there was a slight difference in the expression, in the eyes that Malfoy usually didn't seem to have. It made him look… interesting.

"Ernest Macmillan," Ernie said bluntly. "Of course you know me, we have almost all of our NEWT classes together – we sit on the same bench in Potions!"

Malfoy looked at him blankly.

"You know, with that new teacher? Slughorn or something…"

" _New_ teacher? Potions? I think you must be confused –"

"I am confused!" Ernie groaned. "Just tell me what's going on, it's not funny anymore."

"I'm afraid I don't understand, and I'm quite certain I've never met you before in my life."

"What? We've been at Hogwarts together for five years, I know your family's all skittish what with You-Know-Who lurking about but I'd have thought –"

"You-Know-Who? I have no idea who you're talking about –"

"Of course you do! Your whole family are Death Eaters!"

Malfoy, who had been about to turn around and leave this clearly delusional young man alone, froze and narrowed his eyes at the boy in front of him.

"Come with me," he said at last, changing direction and walking towards the dungeons instead.

"Why? I' m not –"

"You're attracting attention and unless you'd like to find yourself somewhere particularly unpleasant, I'd cease your chattering if I were you."

oOo

Ernie Macmillan was not one to lose his nerve.

He'd survived _Umbridge_ , for goodness sake. Yet somehow, being led down beneath the depths of the school where no reasonable student would ever go seemed to put him on edge. Just a little.

Against his better judgement, he'd decided to follow Malfoy, though to where he wasn't sure.

The more Malfoy talked, the more Ernie was convinced that maybe it really was 1943. Malfoy spoke funny and all the students that they passed had their hair done up in styles that you only saw in black-and-white photographs in museums or retrospectives.

So did that mean, if he wasn't in the present, but actually the past, that this wasn't really Malfoy? Maybe it was Malfoy's father, Lucius. Or perhaps his grandad?

Just thinking about it made Ernie's head hurt – this boy looked no older than him, the idea that he could be a parent let alone a grandparent seemed ludicrous.

"Where are you taking me?" Ernie asked again.

"I'm going to introduce you to some friends of mine."

"Friends?" Ernie echoed.

They wound up in an old classroom, but it didn't look dusty. Someone had clearly been using it for non-educational purposes, as the bookshelves remained untouched.

"What's this about, Abraxas?" a lanky boy who had been leaning on the desk just behind the door walked towards them.

"This is Ernest Macmillan. Macmillan, meet Nott," he gestured to the lanky boy in front of them; "Avery, Lestrange, Rosier, Mulciber and Dolohov."

"A Hufflepuff?" a dark haired boy sneered at Ernie. "Tom's not going to be happy."

"Excuse me –" Ernie began, ready to defend his House.

"Macmillan," Malfoy interrupted him. "What did I tell you about keeping quiet? I think he could be valuable."

"How?"

A boy, though he looked more like a hardened criminal than a boy, with black hair crowded Ernie, narrowing his eyes, his hand reaching for his wand.

"Antonin," a blonde boy – Avery, if Ernie remembered correctly – said in an undertone.

"Who are you?" Dolohov demanded. "Why are you here?"

"I – I don't know," Ernie said, realising the truth of it. "This morning it was 1996 –"

"1996?" Nott repeated, dubious.

"It was! I was in Potions with – with _his_ grandson," Ernie waved at Malfoy, "or something like that and Slughorn, the new teacher was telling us to –"

"He's a crackpot," Dolohov said decisively. "We should –"

"My grandson?" Abraxas frowned.

"Yes, Draco Malfoy and – and I know your son, too," Ernie said, looking at Nott carefully. "Theodore Nott, he's very good at Potions."

"D'you believe him?" Avery asked.

"No," Dolohov frowned. "I don't."

"I'm telling the truth! In 1996, Dumbledore's headmaster –"

" _Dumbledore_? That old fool?" Rosier scoffed.

"That _old fool_ only defeated one of the darkest wizards of all time – Grindelwald, second only to L- L-Lord Voldemort himself!" Ernie managed to stutter out the name in his anger.

"Grindelwald? Dumbledore's not duelled anybody, least of all _Grindelwald_."

"Well maybe not yet, but he will! He gets the Order of Merlin First Class for it!"

"Lord Voldemort?" Nott murmured thoughtfully. "I think you may be right, Abraxas. I think he could be _very_ useful indeed."

Abraxas nodded. "I'll call Tom."

"Are you sure?" Rosier said, twisting his hands together nervously. "I mean; he doesn't like to be disturbed –"

"I think this is important," Abraxas said, at the door already.

"This is on your head," Lestrange said. "I ain't taking the fall for you."

"Fair enough," Abraxas shrugged. "Watch him whilst I'm gone."

Ernie backed away from the group of boys, suddenly feeling a shift in the dynamics of the room now that Malfoy was no longer there.

"So," Rosier said, shifting his weight and then walking towards Ernie. "Who are you then? Really?"

"I'm Ernest Macmillan, my friends call me Ernie…"

"If you really are from the future," Lestrange said, though his tone suggested he didn't think that was the slightest bit true; "Then what happens to me?"

"You're – you're a Death Eater –"

"Who told you that?" Lestrange was smirking now, amused.

"It's in the paper – you went to Azkaban and – and you have sons, or you did – or you will –"

"Sons?"

"Yeah, they're Death Eaters too."

"How's it you know so much?"

"Everyone knows. After the War –"

"What war?"

"The First Wizarding War – Dumbledore lead the fight against- against You Know Who."

" _You Know Who_?" Lestrange mimicked. "Tell me, who is this man you fear so much, even though he's dead now?"

"Your leader," Ernie said, tripping over his words as he pressed himself back against the wall. "And he's not dead – not really. He's back."

"Our leader?" Lestrange spluttered, grabbing Ernie by his shirt. "And what d'you know about our leader?"

"Put him down, Lestrange. Is that any way to treat a guest?"

A boy with hair as black as night and eyes as deep as the fathomless depths of the ocean stood in front of them. His presence commanded respect, his body simply oozed power and confidence but beneath his handsome face and seemingly charming disposition, there was something sinister lurking beneath that sent Ernie's pulse racing.

This boy was dangerous, there was no doubt about that, this boy was probably evil if he was in with the Death Eaters – and they were Death Eaters, they'd confirmed as much themselves –

"My Lord," Lestrange inclined his head to the boy and dropped Ernie unceremoniously in a heap on the floor.

"My Lord, allow me to introduce you to Ernest Macmillan. Macmillan, meet Tom Riddle."

oOo

The next hour was charged with tension and energy.

Tom Riddle had questions - lots of questions and his interrogation techniques were far from pleasant. He didn't waste time with _Veritaserum_ as Umbridge had done. No, he had the skill to be creative. He was having _fun_ , Ernie realised with outrage. His own pain and humiliation was entertainment for this – this psychopathic megalomaniac which Tom Riddle certainly was.

It was only as time went on that Ernie realised who exactly Tom Riddle was, or, to put it more accurately, what he _would_ become.

Ernie prided himself for his resilience and for his loyalty to his cause – but even at the humble age of sixteen, Tom Riddle was no match for him.

Tom Riddle had almost burst the walls of Ernie's mind, routing around for what he wanted, almost driving Ernie to the point of madness – until he pressed upon a memory that was not any of his business. The thought of anyone, least of all this good-for-nothing tyrant seeing that was just unbearable.

Ernie saw bright, white rage and pushed Riddle out with all of his might. The DA had taught him something at least.

"No," he said, breathless, slumped against the wall, sure that his head was about to implode. "Stay out of my head, Riddle."

Tom Riddle's mouth curled into a smile.

"I think I shall go where I please, thank you Macmillan."

Ernie stumbled to his feet, the room was spinning and his vision was blurring.

"You've got what you want," he pants. "Leave me alone."

Tom Riddle only smirked.

"Sleep well, Macmillan."

oOo

"… I don't know why we're wasting our time, he's probably dead –"

"No! I saw him twitch."

"With rigor mortis," the voice muttered.

"Macmillan! Gave us a scare, you did."

"Where am I?" Ernie said blearily. _Ow_ , he thought, feeling his head. Whatever was wrong, it fucking hurt.

"On the floor."

"Riddle got you," that voice sounded far too happy for Ernie's liking.

"So I gathered. What now?"

"What do you mean?" Abraxas came into focus.

"I can't stay here! I have friends –"

There was a spluttering noise that sounded like disbelief.

"I need to get home. Somehow."

He saw two heads turn to each other.

"Well, if you don't want Dumbledore involved –"

"– and you _really_ don't, trust us –"

"Then you're going to need Tom."

Ernie closed his eyes.

oOo

A hesitant knock on the door drove Riddle away from his plans. He looked up irritably at the blonde haired boy in front of him.

"What do you want Macmillan?"

The room Tom was sat in was dimly lit and drearily decorated. There was a table at which Tom sat, surrounded by books and parchment. Otherwise, the room was sparsely furnished, the only marks of its use being the scuff marks on the wall, indicating some sort of fight or struggle.

Ernie stared at these distractedly, forcefully reminded of their training room last year, in the Room of Requirement. There had been scuff marks not unlike those ones then. He felt a twist in his gut – he missed his friends. He pulled himself together, determined to keep it together in front of Tom.

"I need to get back to the year I came from. They told me you're the guy to see."

Tom sighed. "What makes you think I would do that?"

"I don't belong here; you know I don't –"

"What's to stop me simply killing you?"

Ernie froze.

Tom smiled.

"Don't worry, Macmillan. I'm not quite tired of you yet."

Ernie tried not sag in his relief.

"So you will help me?"

"I never said that."

"If you don't, I'll just go to Dumbledore –"

"You shall do no such thing," Tom said, eyes suddenly angry.

Ernie resisted the urge to take a step back.

"Why shouldn't I?"

Tom fired a curse from where he sat, throwing Ernie backwards.

"You will do as I say."

Ernie scrambled for his wand and cast _reducto_ , just the way they'd practiced last year and it blew the stone it hit to dust, red sparks flying with its power.

"I am not one of your Death Eaters," he says, chest rising and falling as the adrenaline rushed around his body. "You are not my master."

Tom lifted his head from his book, eyeing the effect of Ernie's outburst with poorly disguised interest. He turned to Ernie, an amused expression on his face.

"It would seem not."

oOo

They worked through the night on the plans to transport Ernie back to 1996.

Since their discussion alone, in Tom's private study, Tom hadn't laid a finger on Ernie – not really. They duelled sometimes, Tom pushing, pushing, always pushing. Tom seemed fascinated and Ernie couldn't deny the pull of someone so… so _exasperating_.

Tom Riddle was the most exasperating person he'd ever met – he was so particular about the most mundane of things: the way the curtains hung over the grimy window, the angle of the portraits on the wall, the placement of his books on his desk… They did share some things in common, however.

Ernie liked to be well-presented and for things to be tidy too, perhaps not to the same extent as Tom but he still had the importance of manners and good conduct that Tom appreciated.

There were still distinct differences between them, though.

First of all, Tom was evil.

He liked killing things for fun, especially living things. He also liked snakes. Ernie wasn't fond of snakes. Tom also thought Muggles and Muggle-borns were scum and deserved death – Ernie strongly disagreed with this one and had told Tom so.

"Of course," Tom had leered; "Your _boyfriend_ , Mr Finch-Fletchley –"

Ernie flushed red, "How dare you -?"

"How dare _I_?" Tom was furious. "I've _seen_ the way he looks at you –"

"Yes, the way _he_ looks at _me_. I don't- I don't like him in that way –"

"No? Perhaps you prefer Miss Abbott instead –"

"It's none of your business, Riddle."

Ernie was not in the mood for Riddle's bigotry and probable homophobia.

Tom was _wrong_.

There was nothing bad about Hannah, nothing at all but he wasn't into girls – but Tom didn't have to know that.

Ernie exhaled. How was it that he still cared about judgement from someone like Tom Riddle, who was practically wired to hate everyone and everything?

"Is that what you think?" Tom appeared behind him.

"Stay out of my head, Riddle," Ernie rubbed at his eyes, tired in all the worst ways.

"I don't hate everyone and everything," Tom said quietly.

"Don't you? But you don't love anything either, do you?"

"Love is a weakness –"

"No, Tom. It's not."

"What did you just say?" Tom had an excited gleam in his eyes as he came closer. Ernie shuddered.

"Love isn't a weakness," Ernie looked into Tom's eyes defiantly, knowing – _praying_ \- that Tom wouldn't hurt him.

"Not that part," Tom said. "The part where you said my name."

Then they were kissing and Ernie couldn't think straight. All he could think was that Tom kissed like he meant it, that it was actually a pleasant sensation and that he never wanted him to stop.

But then he remembered.

He was kissing a future Dark Lord.

He was kissing a murderer.

He was touching Lord Voldemort.

He pulled away.

"I – I can't –"

Tom said nothing, he turned around and left without so much as a word.

oOo

Ernie did a lot of thinking that night.

Part of it was justification ( _It wasn't_ really _the Dark Lord; it was only Tom Riddle – he wasn't even of age yet. Besides, he might have messed up the timeline so that in this world, the Wars never happen._ ) The other part was self-reproach – because he had kissed Lord fucking Voldemort – the man who had killed Harry's parents, the man who would have killed Justin without a second thought, the man who was now causing very real terror in his world…

But he hadn't done any of that yet, so was he really responsible for it?

There didn't seem to be any obvious solution so Ernie settled for trying to get home as quickly as was possible.

Which meant talking to Tom. Again.

Yet it wasn't as awkward as Ernie had imagined. Tom was cold and sharp and irritable, casting stray curses whenever he got frustrated – which seemed to be often, but they got stuff done.

Tom was trying to track down a Time-Turner at that present moment – because that seemed to be the most logical thing to do.

However, it was quickly becoming clear that getting back to 1996 would be no easy feat. In fact, it might just be impossible.

If he used the Time-Turner, there would be two of him in the same time, which didn't sound good. Tom suggested they kill the other version of himself – but would that mean he'd die because the other version of Ernie _was_ Ernie?

He could try and possess his own body so that this version of himself inhabited that body but Ernie didn't like the sound of that.

Tom was adamant that they not involve Dumbledore but Ernie thought they might have to.

Anyway, the more they puzzled over the whole thing, the less sure Ernie was that he _wanted_ to go back.

His partner in getting out of here might just be the reason he wanted to stay.

Perhaps Tom sensed that - or knowing him, he probably invaded the privacy of Ernie's mind to know that- as that night, when the two sat together, a bottle of something fiery between them, Tom kissed him and Ernie didn't pull away.

* * *

 **A/N:** **If you really want my opinion on what would happen with this pair: I think Tom would get bored of Ernie and kill him. They wouldn't be able to send him back in time, maybe Ernie would find Dumbledore and become a real student - who knows?**

 **This whole little tale probably made no sense and I definitely rushed it towards the end but hey.**


	14. Flames

**A/N:** **So here we are again. Hello.**

 **This is the drastoria one-shot/ficlet thing that nobody asked for (hehe). It somehow got epically long.**

 **Anyway: there are references to war, alcohol, alcoholism, etc.**

 **(I seem to have lost my ability to just write stuff - this might be a load of crap. Just warning you now.)**

* * *

 _Flames_

* * *

" _Go on, get out of here! Fucking Death Eater scum!"_

He stumbled out of the Inn, swaying slightly and more than a little bruised and swollen. He didn't care though – he felt _fantastic_. The street was spinning a little and he had a vague feeling that his forehead was bleeding, the warm liquid trickling down his cheek and into his mouth. The metallic taste brought him back, briefly. To blood, screaming and war.

His foot missed the curb.

"Sir? Are you okay?"

He became aware of another voice, of another person. Female, if he had to guess.

" _Fantastic_ ," he managed to get out, rocking as he attempted to reclaim his balance. "Fucking fantastic."

He lurched forward and felt a firm grip on his upper arm, steadying him. He looked at her, taking in blonde hair and dark, dark eyes that stared back, unblinking into his, creased with worry.

It had been a long time since someone had worried for him.

He swallowed, determined not to think about it.

"Let's get you home," she said, leading him down the street – it was painted in dull, warm browns and oranges, the leaves scattering the pavement and falling, falling, falling from above.

One red leaf got stuck in her hair and he watched it as it trembled in the breeze before finally untangling itself and whisking away.

"Where're we go'ng?" he slurred, his legs wobbling beneath him against his will.

She frowned at him.

"We're going to my place – it's too dangerous for you to Apparate and besides, I doubt you're in any state to look after yourself."

He tried to protest, but only succeeded in nearly bringing them both crashing to the ground.

"Is there anyone I can owl? A friend -?"

He shook his head, the motion making him dizzy, very dizzy –

He stopped and doubled over, trying to push her away but it was too late. The putrid smell of vomit hit him and he coughed, miserably.

What a fucking night.

oOo

She sighed, looking down at her now ruined coat. It was a shame, she thought. She'd liked that coat.

She cast a quick levitating spell on him and took him down the remaining few streets as he started to fall asleep.

She took down the wards to her flat, and thanked Morgana again that she didn't have a roommate. It would be rather hard to explain, she mused, why she had a near stranger in her company.

He wasn't exactly a stranger, not really. She'd seen him many times before, walking in the streets or in some pub or other. He was quiet, reserved but he was famous – infamous, even, for what he'd done all those years ago. For being the world's youngest Death Eater.

She'd be lying if she said she didn't recognise him. Everyone did – his face had been in the papers for years, his trial on display for all to see. She knew who he was. So why help a Death Eater? Even one found innocent of his crimes? Maybe she saw in him a loneliness that she knew all too well. He was always on his own whenever she saw him, but she knew he had friends.

He didn't live locally; she knew that much. Her sister had said something - years ago- about him moving out of the Manor. Pansy remained on good terms with him but from what Astoria could understand, Draco Malfoy was a deeply troubled and unhappy person.

The matter was probably best left alone – as was the Greengrass way but seeing him staggering around on a cold, October night had sparked something in her. If she didn't help him, then who would? He needed help, that was for definite, and much more help than she could offer – but she could help him tonight and maybe that would be enough.

She nudged him onto her sofa, re-warding the flat and stripping off her coat. The potions she kept in case of emergency were on the shelf, ready and waiting as they always were and as she rubbed salves into his skin and uttered healing charms, she wondered what on Earth he'd gotten into.

Every mark on his skin showed signs of a fight, almost certainly alcohol-induced. Her fingers brushed against his Mark – which had been exposed as she cleaned the blood from the cut on his arm. He stirred briefly, eyes alert and alarmed.

She did her best to smile softly as she eased him back down again, under the blankets she'd summoned.

That was how she left him when she finally claimed sleep for herself, with the fire crackling and the candle light low.

oOo

He woke uneasily, feeling the fuzziness in his head before the dull aches in his bones. He swung his legs off the bed – and then realised he wasn't at home at all and felt a wave of panic.

"Morning."

He snapped his attention to a girl – woman, really – standing in the doorway with a mug of something warm in her hands. She was classically pretty in an effortless kind of way. She was the kind of woman he'd probably date – that is, if any woman like that would deign to give him the time of day, which was unlikely in the Wizarding world and any girl _not_ from the Wizarding world was just out of the question.

He massaged his face with his fingers, trying to recall last night's events. He remembered fists, pain, blood and red leaves.

"Can I get you anything? Tea? Coffee?"

"Coffee's fine," he murmured. Then, "Do I know you?"

She chuckled, setting her mug down as she padded across the kitchen in ridiculously fluffy socks.

"Yes," she said, looking at him.

He cocked his head to the side – blonde hair and dark, dark eyes…

"Astoria Greengrass," she said finally, handing him his coffee. "You know my sister, Daphne."

"Right, right, of course."

So, that's why she'd seemed so familiar. He must have spent hours with her family at social events, and to think he couldn't even recall her name… _Getting sloppy, Malfoy_.

"Wait," he paused, unsure how to phrase it delicately. "We didn't uh, you know, sleep together last night, did we?"

She laughed again. "No, we did not."

He breathed a sigh of relief. Crisis avoided. Oh, to think what Daphne might have done to him.

Then he harked back to another memory of the night before, one even less pleasant.

"Oh God," he said, suddenly feeling slightly sick. "I threw up all over you last night. I am so sorry –"

"Don't worry about it," she waved her hand dismissively.

"No, that was truly revolting. I do beg your pardon. Is there any way I can make it up to you? I am at your ladyship's service," he gave her his most charismatic smirk.

Her face caught a thoughtful expression.

"Perhaps there is one thing…"

"Anything."

"The annual Autumn _thé dansant_ is tomorrow – I assume you will be attending?"

"Indeed I will be."

"Then, may I have the first dance with you?"

"I'd be delighted," he said, surprised.

"Perfect."

oOo

"Astoria _Greengrass_?" Theo repeated, disbelieving.

"Yes," he caught Theo's eyes in the mirror as he finished styling his hair.

"And you have a _date_?"

"It's not really a date," Draco conceded; "But we are dancing the first dance together."

"That sounds like a date."

"To you – and to me but maybe not to her."

"Wait, wait, so how did this happen? You _never_ meet anyone –"

"Technically we'd already met –"

"Where the hell were you last night anyway?"

"With Miss Greengrass."

"Oh," the colour drained from Theo's face. " _No_ , Draco, no. Please tell me you didn't –"

"I didn't sleep with her, you can relax. Merlin, you're such an old-fashioned troglodyte," he rolled his eyes, though he spoke with affection.

"I just don't want you to break her heart – she's not like Pansy, you know."

"Yes, I know."

"And try to behave tonight," Theo stalled at the door, as though struggling with some unseen force before he sighed and gave a slight smile and left.

oOo

"Waiting for someone?"

Astoria turned around to face her sister – who was dressed up in greens and diamonds. Daphne had the elegance and grace one would usually associate with a much older woman than she. She was sophisticated in a way Astoria only hoped to emulate.

"Maybe."

"A certain Mr Malfoy by any chance?"

"Why would you assume him of all people?" Astoria took a flute of champagne from a nearby wine waiter – the afternoon tea had long since been discarded in favour of liquor and dancing.

"I have my sources," Daphne replied evasively, staring at Astoria's glass with disapproval.

"What?" Astoria asked, noticing and irritated.

"Don't drink too much, will you? And be sure to keep an eye on this partner of yours, I hear he has some trouble with… _moderation_."

Astoria could barely keep the scowl off her face – Daphne had a habit of this; sticking her nose into other people's business. She _meant_ well, of course she did, it was just extremely aggravating to be the subject of all this interfering concern.

"My lady Greengrass?"

And then Draco Malfoy was there, slightly bowed as he kissed her gloved hand and wearing a smile that would charm even her mother.

"I believe I was promised this dance," he said, leading her to the centre of the room where the hosts – some distant relations or other – were already dancing.

He had one hand on her waist, the other lightly gripped her own. He was an impeccable dancer – she couldn't fault him. He led her around the floor with ease and she thought: _this should be perfect_.

It was perfect – he was handsome and gracious and this was undeniably romantic, or it would be, but Astoria just didn't feel it.

There was something about dancing with this kind-of stranger that unsettled her. Maybe it was because she didn't know very much about him, or maybe –

"You are a wonderful dancer, Miss Greengrass."

"You're not so bad yourself," she said, and she felt his smile.

"I'd hope not," he spun her outwards and pulled her in; "I've had far too many lessons to be anything less."

"Is that so?" she said distractedly, catching sight of a familiar man.

"Are you alright, Miss Greengrass?"

She snapped her attention back to him and nodded, stiffly. "Yes. Yes, I… I thought I saw someone I knew."

"I wanted to thank you – for your assistance last night. I am – I'm very grateful."

"It's fine."

"No, really, it was very… kind of you," he said earnestly. "And I wanted to ask for your discretion on the matter."

"Discretion?"

"I'd rather no one knew about last night, I'm sure you understand."

"Of course. I haven't told anyone. Though, tell me, Mr Malfoy, is that a usual occurrence?"

Draco's smile faltered for a moment and they stopped dancing, drawing away to the corner of the room so that they might have some privacy. He cast a silencing charm.

"It's nothing for you to worry about, Miss Greengrass."

Astoria bristled. "I'll be the judge of that – you should know that I'm a Healer, if you have any concerns regarding your health –"

"I'll thank you to stay out of this," Draco's smile had slid straight off his face, replaced by gritted teeth. "I don't want them to know I was out drinking. They think it's a problem but it's not. I'm handling it."

"Handling it how? You clearly need help –"

"Careful, Greengrass, you overstep –"

"If you're staggering around in a drunken stupor at night –"

"It's none of your business!" he exploded, going red in the face.

"Fine then," she straightened up, a cold expression wiping away any kindness that had been there. "It was a pleasure dancing with you."

She walked away, her tight mask in place as she greeted aristocrats and shook hands. Not once did she look back at the pale gentleman with whom she had danced, but she felt his eyes trained on her back the whole evening.

oOo

He left the party early – it was only 11 o'clock when he walked out of the building and under the stars.

They were beautiful, in their untouchable, indifferent manner. Stars didn't care if you lived or died – they just twinkled from up high, winking stolidly at those below. Burning brightly, fading gently, pinpricks of light in a sea of black – like flickering lighthouses on the shore.

He'd left the party alone. There had been an attractive serving girl but it hadn't gone anywhere. It never did.

That was when he saw her.

She was hurrying after a man in black robes, who had his collar turned up against the cold and was studiously ignoring her as she waved pamphlets in his face, she was shouting too, yelling about policy and what kind of advocate for justice did he think he was?

"Can't you see that this is wrong? If you'll just listen to –"

"Darling, stop."

Her head whipped around and she gave up chasing the man in favour of glowering at him. "What did you just say to me?"

"I said, 'darling, stop'. They don't care, you're wasting your time."

"I'm trying to help –"

"And they don't care about the likes of me. If you're waiting for the rights of Death Eater scum, I wouldn't hold your breath."

"I have to _try_."

"No, you don't. Go home."

" _No_. My sister and every other Slytherin I know is facing trial –"

"And there's nothing you or I can do about it."

"Not with that attitude, no."

"Oh what do I care?" he threw his hands up in exasperation. "Do what you want, but you are _wasting your time_."

She made a disgruntled noise and sped up to catch up with him.

"Quite the activist, aren't you?" he sneered. "Rescuing drunks, campaigning for justice – what a _saviour_ you are, how –"

"Just shut up, will you? Why are you so horrible? You're grumpy and you're irritable all the time! You just bring everybody down."

"I do apologise for being such a frightful inconvenience to you –"

"You need to get it together, Malfoy," she said, shaking her head.

"I know," he said quietly, barely audible. The change in tone – so sudden – made her sigh.

"You can start by laying off this," she removed the bottle of Firewhisky from his grasp and made it vanish with a flick of her wand.

"It's not as easy as just saying no –"

"In this case, it really is. I think you have the capability and the will to do anything you want –"

"I couldn't kill old Dumbledore though, could I?"

And there it was again, the raspy croakiness of his voice that hung on every word when he talked of those years – about blood, screaming and war. He knew he was mildly intoxicated, just enough to push him towards honesty. He knew he probably shouldn't talk about it – that's what he'd always been told: be quiet, don't mention it, don't think about it, but he hadn't talked about it in so long, or indeed ever.

And then it all just came out – about blood, screaming and war. Because he wasn't strong enough – he wasn't he wasn't he wasn't.

And somehow she just wrapped her arms around him, wordlessly, giving the comfort only human warmth can.

She said she knew about blood, screaming and war.

And from that moment he saw the stars in her eyes.

They were falling, falling, falling.

And so, in time, would he.


End file.
